All These Things That I've Done
by SuperWhoLockness
Summary: There are things that Sherlock is having difficulty confessing to John, but only because he's terrified of scaring away the only other person in his life that has ever truly meant anything to him. M for language, violence, self-destructive behaviors and other possibly triggery things. READ/REVIEW! *JohnLock*
1. Black Spells

A/N: So this is my second JohnLock fanfic. I'll warn you now it's rated M for self-destructive behaviors (i.e. possible self-injury, drug use, sexual situations, and possible violence). Please review and/or give me feedback!

**Possible spoilers as well if you haven't watched all the episodes so read at your own risk!  
**

AU in the sense that Sherlock's father is actually a totally asshole and not a nice old man.

This is also a songfic because I believe music is magic and has the ability to give the ultimate feels. I own nothing.

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Chapter One: Black Spells

.o.o.

.o.

_All your dreams are made_

_Of strawberry lemonade_

_And you make sure_

_I eat today_

_Oasis – Talk Tonight_

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

John looked over at the empty couch that usually had Sherlock's tall, slender body sunk into it. He hadn't seen his friend in almost two days but he knew that the consulting detective was still in the flat; he was just in his own room. These dark days weren't rare for Sherlock, John knew. Ever since the two of them moved in together, John quickly became aware of his companion's black days where he didn't talk to anyone or step into the kitchen to eat. The latter issue bothered John Watson more than the former and he tried his best to get Sherlock to eat but to no avail.

He closed the book he had been reading and stood up, walking over to Sherlock's bedroom door before he gently knocked on it. "Sherlock? Is there anything I can get you, mate? Tea? A bit of toast, perhaps?"

Silence.

John bit his lip nervously, wondering if Sherlock had anything that could be considered weapons inside that room. As a doctor, he'd seen it all and the worst cases for him were the suicides, or worse yet the attempted suicides. He was well aware of what a severely depressed person could do if they were desperate enough.

He tried to knock again. "Come on, Sherlock… at least say something."

He heard his friend groan before a growl came from the other side. "Go. Away."

It wasn't much but at least it was something. Hearing Sherlock's voice, angry or not, put John's mind at ease. At least his friend was still alive. This thought gave him solace for a flittering moment before he realized that he had to somehow get inside the room to check on him. Not eating or drinking for two days wasn't good.

John waited another half hour before he walked into the kitchen and made up a small tray of toast with jam and tea. He cleared his throat in front of Sherlock's door before speaking again. "Come on, now. Let me in, Sherlock. At least have some tea."

He waited, standing at the door, refusing to move. John sighed, slowly becoming impatient as his worry increased again. Then, he heard the soft _click _of the door being unlocked and saw the door open a bit. John peeked inside to see Sherlock wrapped in his white bedspread sheet, sitting on the bed. He took this opportunity to bring the tray in and placed it on the bed before he carefully sat down next to him.

With the sheet wrapped around him, John couldn't tell how Sherlock's body was fairing unless he looked directly at Sherlock's chest and neck area. His bones were raised slightly against Sherlock's pale skin and John could see dark circles under his friend's red and puffy eyes as well. So he hadn't slept. Or ate.

John looked at Sherlock with concern in his eyes and then gently pushed a piece of toast towards him. He looked at it before he sighed heavily, as if the very idea of picking it up was too much to handle. Perhaps it was for him in this moment but John's worry wasn't going away.

"Come on, Sherlock. You know you need to eat. You can't ignore your body's needs. It's dangerous and quite frankly, it scares me," he confessed softly in the dimly lit room.

"I don't feel hungry, John…" he nearly whispered, looking vacantly at the toast.

He bit his lip and gave him a small, sympathetic smile before he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know but if you don't eat anything soon, you're going to pass out, if you haven't already. You must be dizzy and exhausted and not eating won't make either of those things go away. Please eat for me, Sherlock. If for no one and nothing else, do it for me?"

Sherlock's face softened and he looked up at John with sad eyes before he picked up the toast and took a small bite of it before he reluctantly chewed it. John felt relief fill him up before he smiled and nodded.

"Good, thank you. I appreciate that, Sherlock."

"I know you do," he replied, matter-of-factly. "I can't keep feeling this way, John."

The doctor poured him a cup of tea and handed it over to him before he felt his heart sink in his chest. "You wouldn't if you just took your medication. You have antidepressants. I don't understand why you won't take them."

Sherlock gave him a look of contempt and shook his head. "No, I can't take them. They make me feel… off. I can't focus with them and they make me feel tired all the time. They make me want to crawl out of me skin. I can't possibly concentrate on a case if I'm on them."

John looked at him with disapproving eyes. "Maybe sleep would be a good thing for you, Sherlock. I can see you haven't slept for at least two days. Is there a reason why you're having insomnia?" he asked, taking a sip of his own tea.

Sherlock was quiet for a while, taking another small bite of his toast before he shrugged and looked out the window as the English rain came down outside. He knew the reason but he couldn't tell John, not yet at least. He replaced his shrug with a shake of his head. "No. I don't know why, John. It could just be the depression."

"Fine then, don't tell me," John retorted, being able to tell when there was something Sherlock Holmes wasn't telling him. When he saw the slightly hurt look in his friend's eyes, guilt instantly consumed him. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sherlock. Tell me in your own time, that's fine. I just want you to try and take care of yourself. I know that's ridiculous of me to ask of you when you're in this state but I just care about you a lot and it pains me to see you like this."

Sherlock looked down at his hands and the toast that was still in them. He placed the toast back on the tray and took a drink of his tea, quiet for a long time. He just wanted to be alone. He didn't want to be around anyone else for the moment, at least not until he got over this patch. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.

"You don't have to be in here with me, John. I know what you're worried about and I promise that you're worrying for nothing. I have no intention of ending my life today," Sherlock confirmed.

John relaxed a bit and nodded. "Right… good. That's good to hear. I'll just leave the tray in here with you and you can just… pass it out when you're ready." He got off the bed and was almost to the door when he turned around to look at Sherlock. "You don't have to be alone in this, you know. I'm right here. I'm outside this door and I don't plan on going anywhere. If you need me, just… call out. All right?"

Sherlock seemed surprised and taken back by John's offer but he nodded and then turned his attention back towards the toast, taking another small bite, obviously for John's benefit.

Once he saw him swallow the bite of toast, John left the room but left the door open a couple inches. He hadn't gotten back to his chair when he heard footsteps and then the bedroom door close all the way. He sighed but didn't go back to force Sherlock to keep it open. He wasn't a child, even if he acted as stubborn as one most of the time. He was an adult just as John was an adult.

He opened his book back up and then tried to focus on the words but his mind refused; his thoughts kept trailing to how all he wanted to do was get out of the flat. He'd been cooped up here with him for so long that he was getting cabin fever. They hadn't received a decent case in nearly a week and it was probably the cause of Sherlock's depressive state. John rubbed his temples before he looked through his phone and dialed Gregory Lestrade's number.

"Hello?"

"Greg, it's John. Umm… I realize you're probably busy at the moment – "

"You're kidding, right? Christ, it's been dead here at the station, if you'll forgive the pun. I don't know what's going on out there but I bet we've had the lowest crime rate in half a century this week. Anyway, what's going on, John?"

John felt a bit better about calling the Detective Inspector now, even if it meant just another person to talk to. He stood up and walked into his bedroom before he closed his own door to get some privacy, in case Sherlock could hear his voice. "Sherlock's going pretty mad, Greg. Without a case to occupy his mind, his depression's set in and I'm worried about him."

Greg sighed on the other end but John could tell it was out of mere exhaustion and the same cabin fever he was feeling. "Well, you're a doctor, aren't you? Have you tried prescribing him something?"

"He has antidepressants. He just refuses to take them and it's not like I can force them down his throat! Are you sure you don't have any cases at all for him?" John asked, feeling desperate.

"No, John. I'm sorry but the cases we do have are open and shut ones that don't require a consulting detective. If you really want, I might be able to find a cold case Sherlock could work on. It might keep him busy for a couple weeks at least," Greg offered.

John thought about this for a bit and found himself unable to come up with any other ideas. "That'll have to do. We both know how he feels about cold cases but maybe this time will be different. Do you mind bringing them over or having someone else bring them? I just don't feel right about leaving him alone when he's like this."

"Yeah, sure. Nothing else going on. I'll just bring them over myself. He'll probably be more likely to accept them if he doesn't have to deal with Anderson or Donavan. I'll be over in a bit then."

"Cheers, Greg…" John hung up the phone but still felt apprehensive. It took a lot for a case to appeal to Sherlock and cold cases that no one else could solve were either too easy for him or proved nearly impossible with every ounce of evidence either lost or disintegrated.

John walked back out into the living room and walked over to Sherlock's bedroom door again but didn't knock. He pressed his ear against the door and only heard the sound of Sherlock stirring sugar and milk into his tea. Good, at least he was drinking something.

It wasn't nearly ten minutes later when John heard a rapping on the flat door. He walked over and opened it before greeting Lestrade. "Thanks for coming, Greg."

"Yeah, no problem," Gregory replied, handing John three manila folders. "I… wasn't sure which one would get him out so I just brought the ones I had in my desk. Err… how's he doing?" he asked, nodding towards Sherlock's room.

John shrugged as he took the folders from him. "About as good as can be expected, I suppose. I got him to eat a bit of toast and he drank some tea too so… I think he'll be okay."

Greg nodded. "Good… that's good." He looked at John with almost questioning eyes but didn't say anything for the longest time. "This is going to sound strange, but would you mind if I came in for a bit? I wasn't kidding when I said we had nothing to do at Scotland Yard. I could do from a break from Anderson anyway."

John stepped out of the way to let the DI inside. "No, of course. Come on inside. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks, John. I'm all right."

John now stood there, biting his lip. He needed to get out of the flat or else he was going to lose it but he had promised Sherlock he wasn't going anywhere. He had felt more hesitant about leaving him earlier but now there was someone else here. He looked at the older man. "Hey, umm… I have to pop out for a bit and get some groceries. Do you think you could just stay here until I get back?"

Greg looked unsure for a few moments but then nodded. "Oh, sure. Go ahead. Yeah, I can stay here with him. No worries."

"Are you sure? If you'd rather not, I won't blame you. I know you two don't exactly get on well or anything…"

Greg thumbed the cigarette pack that was in his pocket and looked at John. "I'll stay if it's okay if I smoke in here," he half-teased. He wouldn't seriously light up in the flat if John wouldn't appreciate it but he felt the need to break the tension in the room.

John chuckled and smiled. "Smoke away, Sherlock does anyway. If you need me, you know my number. I'll be back soon." He grabbed his coat and pocketed his phone before he hurried out of the flat, looking up at their window before hailing a cab to the grocery store.

Sherlock heard the sound of a door slamming shut and then felt his heart sink slightly. He pushed the tray away and got up out of the bed before he walked towards the door, still holding the long white sheet around his body. He looked down at the floor and saw the dark shadow of black shoes and soon smelled cigarette smoke.

He slowly opened the door and peeked out before he straightened up and looked at Lestrade. "Geoff? What the hell are you doing here?"

Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Sherlock's voice but he exhaled the smoke before he looked over at a pale, tired and frail looking Sherlock Holmes. "It's Greg, for the millionth time, and I thought I'd stop by. I brought some case folders for you."

Sherlock glanced at the coffee table and sat down on the couch before he started looking through them. An impatient look spread across his face and he looked up at Greg. "You must be joking. These have all gone cold! What do you expect me to do with them?"

Lestrade took a drag off his cigarette. "What do I expect you to do? Solve them! Do whatever it is you do and solve them, Sherlock. Isn't that what you do? Or have you retired early?"

Sherlock threw the folders back down on the coffee table before he stood back up and walked over to him. "I don't have the energy to go running around London on empty clues, Lestrade. I can only suspect that this was John's doing, trying to get me out of the flat. Where did he go?"

"Out to get the groceries. Christ, you look like hell, Sherlock…"

"Yet another brilliant observation made by Scotland Yard," Sherlock remarked icily. "Why did you agree to stay here with me? I would've thought that me offing myself would've been something that would appeal to you."

Lestrade looked like he was about to scold him for the assumption but his face softened now. "_Are_ you feeling suicidal? If you are, then… you need to talk to someone about that…"

Sherlock rubbed his eyes tiredly and searched Greg's face. "Did… did you tell him?"

"Tell who what?" Lestrade took another drag off his cigarette before blowing the smoke out and away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "Did you tell John about my previous suicide attempts, from before?"

Lestrade suddenly looked a lot older than he actually was, a sad scowl appearing on his face and his body slumped over slightly. He shook his head. "No, actually. I haven't, but I'm guessing you haven't bothered to tell him about those either. Jesus, Sherlock! These are things you need to talk to your doctor about, and when I say doctor, I mean John! He _is_ your flatmate after all…"

Sherlock relaxed a bit. "No, he doesn't need to know about that yet. I don't want him to know. He'll have me committed for sure. I'll die in an institution like that, Lestrade; I can't stay locked up somewhere."

"Really, because you've done a pretty good job of that staying locked up in your room for two days, from what I've been told! Sherlock, I might be part of Scotland Yard but I know you better than John does and that's not fair to him. What you tell him or don't tell him is your own business but just keep in mind that sooner or later, he's going to find out all your secrets and it won't have been me who told him," Greg warned, not unkindly.

Sherlock nodded once and pulled the sheet closer to his body, as if willing it to swallow him up. "I realize that. I'm just trying to not scare away one of the few people who still talk to me."

"You won't scare him, Sherlock. He might be upset at first but he's your mate, and he'll forgive you eventually."

The detective nodded in understanding and looked back over at the cases, wetting his lips before he looked back at Greg. "Send those to my brother. He has more connections and he'll be able to close all three cases within a week."

Lestrade took a final drag from the cigarette before he put the butt out in the glass ashtray on the coffee table. He took the folders and looked back at Sherlock. "You aren't going to go out and solve them, then? I understand you're having a depressive episode at the moment, Sherlock, but John's really worried about you. At least go out somewhere to give him the impression that you're all right, even if you aren't. Do it for his sake."

Sherlock suddenly couldn't stop the anger that had boiled up. He let the sheet drop down but kept it tight at his waist. "For God's sake, stop telling me what I need to do, Lestrade! What I say to John is none of your goddamn business and I'd appreciate it if you kept out of our business, especially mine! I already have a father and I don't need another one trying to tell me he knows what's best for me!"

The outburst caught Greg off guard but he kept his calm. He just sighed heavily and searched Sherlock's sad eyes. "I know all about your father, Sherlock, and you know as well as I do that he wasn't the best man in the world. I'm as good as a father to you so I'd appreciate it if you gave me just a little bit more respect than you give every other person in London! Lest you forget, I'm also your superior and I'm the reason you're able to live in this flat with John."

Sherlock's anger dissipated slightly and he cast his eyes downward, despising being put in his place but knowing that Lestrade was the only person besides John that he'd let do that. He just nodded curtly and swallowed hard before he looked away, not letting Lestrade see the tears that had appeared in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat and trudged towards the window.

As Lestrade looked at him, he felt guilt rise up. He shouldn't have done that, not in Sherlock's state. He knew how the detective got into these black spells and he also knew all too well what one of the results could be from the depression. His stomach cringed when he saw Sherlock's shoulder blades rise through his skin on his back and felt uneasy again.

"Come on, Sherlock. Eat something. I know you haven't eaten very much lately. I'm not a doctor and even I can tell," Greg remarked, walking into the kitchen to look for something. He grabbed an apple and walked back into the living room. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned around and caught the apple Lestrade tossed to him. He rolled it around in his hands before he took a bite from it. He was quiet now, thinking about John.

"I'm not telling you to tell him every single thing, Sherlock. I know that'd be asking too much of you but I just think he needs to know about how you… almost died."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't tell him about my past suicide attempts, Lestrade… especially not after my fall off of Bart's. He thought I was dead for two years. How do you think he's going to react when I tell him how I really did try to take my own life multiple times and almost succeeded?"

Lestrade half shrugged. "I don't know, Sherlock, but I know you can do it."

Sherlock paced before he turned on the DI again. "Why should I tell John? It's not going to change anything! It's just going to bring him misery and he won't be able to trust me again!"

"Fine then. Whatever, don't tell him! What do I care? I'm only the damn person who saved you both those times! Why listen to _me_?" Lestrade shot back at him.

Sherlock growled in frustration and then moved over to him just as he heard John coming back. He stopped short, nearly tripping on his sheet. He brought his voice down to a whisper now. "F-Fine, I'll tell him. Just… don't tell him about the other things… please."

Lestrade waved him off just as John entered, his arms carrying two brown paper bags. He set them on the counter in the kitchen and started to unload.

"Well, I'm off then unless there's anything else you need from me, John!"

The doctor glanced over at him and shook his head. "I think we're good. Thank you for dropping by, Greg…"

"Sure thing… I'll see you around!"

"Cheers, mate."

Sherlock waited until Lestrade left and then walked over to where John was unloading. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and got close enough to smell the doctor's spiced cologne. He closed his eyes, breathing it in. There was something that stopped him from spilling his confessions onto John now. What if he got too freaked out and left? What if he wanted no part of Sherlock anymore? He couldn't handle that, not now when he was just realizing his feelings for this man. This wonderful, amazing, patient, and caring man…

He just couldn't do it. "Do… do you want help?"

John looked at Sherlock with surprise; it wasn't like him to offer to help with anything ever. He gave him a warm smile and nodded. "That'd be great, Sherlock. Thank you…"

Sherlock started to silently put things away, having tied the sheet around his waist tightly so it wouldn't fall down on accident. He brought out his tray and cleaned it off, making sure to finish off the toast in front of John so he could see him eat and quit nagging him. Sure, there were things about the doctor that irritated Sherlock but the very fact that he had made him something to eat in the first place told the detective how much he did care about him. For once, it felt good to have someone else who took care of him, someone who wasn't Greg Lestrade.

Someone who was John Watson.


	2. Confessions

A/N: Thank you for following my story and for the reviews! It means a lot to me. Writing this story is turning to be pretty therapeutic for me so I'm glad you guys are enjoying reading it.

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Chapter Two: These Confessions Will Drown Us

.o.o.

.o.

_And on and on from the moment I wake,_

_To the moment I sleep,_

_I'll be there by your side,_

_Just you try and stop me,_

_I'll be waiting in line,_

_Just to see if you care._

_Coldplay – Shiver_

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock lay in the fetal position with the white sheet still wrapped around his body and head, the black storm clouds still unrelentingly hanging over his head. He watched John intently, seeing the doctor shifting in his seat as he looked down at his phone.

"Is it from your sister, Harriet?" Sherlock asked curiously, trying his best to take his mind off the depression that had consumed him for the past three days now.

John looked at Sherlock almost with impatient eyes. "What? What on earth would make you think it's my sister?"

His suggestion made him uneasy now. He felt his insides twist again and he shrugged under his sheet. "That's the seventh text message you've received in the past two days. Every time you look at it, you tense up and look perplexed. Obviously it gives you some kind of emotional reaction. It's possible something could be wrong with someone you care about, someone who needs help and someone who you love. If it was a friend, you might text them back but because it's most likely your alcoholic sister, you choose not to message her back because you still resent her for past mistakes."

John looked at his friend with a look of disbelief but shook his head, sighing. "Actually, no, Sherlock. It's not Harriet. I'm sorry but you're not always right. You can't always be that clever."

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, racking his brain as he tried to think who it could be. "Parents?"

"No… it's… it's no one important, Sherlock. I'm going to meet up with them. You're not feeling well and I want to stay here with you until you feel better."

The detective felt his chest ache with something he assumed would be guilt. "I'm only just a bit under the weather. You don't need to babysit me, John."

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "A bit under the weather, is that what you're calling it? You have severe depression, Sherlock. Stop trying to downplay it!"

Sherlock flinched slightly and felt the sadness he felt rising back up. "You're upset with me. Why are you upset with me?"

John's frustration and impatience flickered upon his face and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, Sherlock. I'm not upset with you. I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

He held the sheet around his body tighter and looked out the window to see small, soft fluffy white flakes falling outside. The thought of snow made him feel even colder than he already was. "Go run your errands, see whoever it is you want to see. I'm okay here."

John looked sad for a moment himself, the anger gone from his eyes now. "Are you absolutely sure? I don't want to leave if you need me here. You're more important than these messages."

Sherlock's curiosity was overwhelming now but he didn't want to be yelled at again so he kept his questions to himself. He nodded against the sheet. "Of course I'm sure." Then another thought occurred to him after a short pause between the two men. "Call Lestrade if you must. He doesn't seem to be doing anything as of late."

John looked at him thoughtfully before he bit his lip. "That's… not a bad idea. I don't want you to think that he's a babysitter for you though. I just want someone to be here that you can talk to," he explained as he pressed the buttons for Greg's mobile number.

Sherlock thought about challenging John and adding 'because you're afraid I might do something to myself,' but he quickly remembered calling the head of Scotland Yard was his idea. He remained quiet as he listened to John explain the situation to Lestrade and then hung up. He walked over and grabbed his coat before he looked down at Sherlock with what looked like guilt in his eyes.

"I'll try not to be too long. Be nice to Greg."

Sherlock's eyes shifted from the coffee table up to John. "Mmm… who?"

"Lestrade… how can you forget his name all the time? It's not that difficult a name to remember, is it?"

"Oh, right. I don't normally refer to him by his first name…"

John gave a small chuckle as he sat on the edge of the couch and looked at Sherlock. "You've known him for nearly six years and you've never called him by his first name?" he asked skeptically.

Sherlock thought for a while, trying to remember the days right after Sherlock's attempted incidents. He had been so angry at himself for having let himself get caught and he had been so angry at Lestrade that he only referred to him by his last name, just like all the other times he had encountered him.

"No, never. It doesn't seem to bother him, though."

John searched Sherlock's face with guilt in his eyes again. "Well, I suppose he wouldn't actually let on that it bothered him that you always call him by his surname."

"What is it, John?"

"Hmm? What's what?"

Sherlock shifted his body so he could look properly at his friend. "Why are you looking so miserable? You look like you feel bad about something."

"Oh," John cleared his throat nervously and shook his head before giving Sherlock a small smile. "It's nothing. I just feel bad about doing my errands instead of staying here with you. You're the one who's miserable…"

Sherlock was smart enough to know a lie when he heard one, or rather in his case, saw one happening. There was something else scratching away at the doctor but he couldn't exactly pinpoint it. His thoughts were still clouded by his depression and the ache in his bones didn't help matters either.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock assured him, going along with his friend's lie. "Lestrade will watch over me, and most likely get on my nerves like he always does."

The joke made John smile again before he seemed fully assured. "Do you want me to make you anything before I go? Do you want to have some fruit or something?"

"No, thank you, John. I'm all right."

John walked over to him and placed his hand on Sherlock's pulse. He looked down at his watch as he counted mentally before he looked at him. "Your heart is racing. Your body's working overtime on nothing. You haven't eaten today yet, have you?" he asked knowingly.

Sherlock sighed, trying to embrace John's nagging instinct. "I'll eat something while you're out if it'll get you off my back." He forced a half smile to try and make the situation feel less serious than it was.

"Good, then do that… and Lestrade will tell me if you actually ate or not too. Oh Jesus, it really does sound like he's a babysitter," John chuckled as he stood up again.

Sherlock said nothing just before he heard Greg knock on the flat door. John and him exchanged casual words before he saw his friend left and saw the Detective Inspector walk inside, his hands in his pockets and looking around as if he hadn't been here yesterday. He couldn't believe he didn't feel the awkwardness in front of this older man who had been the first one at the scene when Sherlock had cut his wrist opened vertically and lay on the bathroom floor. By all means, Sherlock should feel uneasy about Lestrade having seen him like that, but he didn't and he couldn't figure it out, which frustrated him.

Several minutes went by before Lestrade gave Sherlock a small smile before he turned on the small television that sat in front of John's armchair. He turned the volume down but in Sherlock's mental state, the dull tone of voices unnerved him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

"Can you please shut that off?"

"Sorry, Sherlock; the football game's on and I have money on it. I'm afraid you're just going to have to deal with it until it's over," Greg replied, obviously not sorry at all.

"That's ironic… a police officer who illegally bets on games."

Greg glanced over at him. "Who says it was done illegally? I didn't do it in some shady back alley…"

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes again as he spoke again. "You arrived here awfully quickly, which means you weren't too far when John called you and asked to watch me. You smell like fish and chips and the nearest proper restaurant with fish and chips is Lacey's pub but that's at least twelve minutes away by cab and you arrived here in seven minutes flat, which tells me you were at the nearest gambling building that is four minutes away. The only people who gamble are ones who are tight on money or looking for danger and you seem to have fit both those categories since the severe lack of crimes you haven't had to solve. You wrote down your bet, placed it, and then rushed over here, according to the slight perspiration on your neck collar and your forehead."

Lestrade looked at him in what was a mixture of shock and awe. "Blimey, how the hell how do you do that, Sherlock? I mean, I know… by observation, but that's just something truly incredible. I will say you have quite a gift." He admitted, shaking his head but allowing a small smile to appear on his face.

Sherlock also smiled to himself, but it was a sad smile. He couldn't get his mind off of John and what it was that he was hiding. He lay on the couch, only half paying attention to the football game on the television, finding it mindless enough. He watched it for a good half hour before he finally forced himself to stand up, stretching.

"I'm off to go shower. Help yourself to whatever," he offered before he dragged his sheet into his bathroom and shut the door.

"Don't lock it, Sherlock!" Lestrade called from the living room, his voice making it sound more of an order than him just asking him not to lock it.

Sherlock knew this routine quite well. Ever since that one night, Greg always told him not to lock any doors, his trust in Sherlock having flown out the window. He wasn't feeling up to messing with the DI so he kept it unlocked and jumped in the shower, letting the hot water warm his icy body, feeling the cold down to his very bones. That had to be from the little food he had eaten in the past few days.

After he had rinsed himself of soap, he shut the water off and then started to dry himself off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and started towards the sink when a wave of dizziness hit him hard, and caused him to tumble forward, hitting his head on the sink slightly before he fell on the floor.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? Holmes!" a panicked voice yelled at him.

He moaned and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Lestrade kneeling over him, holding something to his head. He looked around, blinking a few times to try and get his vision back. "I'm… I'm fine…"

"Like hell you are! What happened?"

Sherlock blinked until he regained his full vision again and then cringed, feeling his head throb unmercifully. "Damn it… I… I felt dizzy and I must have fainted…"

Lestrade looked at him worriedly and looked down to examine the cut on his head. "It doesn't appear to be bleeding very much but you might have a concussion. Maybe we should go to the hospital."

That was the last thing he needed right now. If he went to the hospital, they'd keep him there and probably force feed him through tubes. It was likely Sherlock would get force fed anyway whether he went to the hospital or stayed here at Baker Street but he would eat for John here without a severe struggle. He couldn't guarantee as much at Bart's hospital.

"No, Lestrade… I'll be okay. Just… get me a glass of water," Sherlock told him as he slowly got back to his feet.

The DI helped him up carefully before he hurried into the kitchen and came back with the water. He placed it on the sink but stood where he was, cautiously eyeing Sherlock in case he fainted again. Sherlock grabbed the bottle of painkillers and swallowed two down with the water before he examined himself in the bathroom mirror.

"It's superficial. It'll stop bleeding soon…" Sherlock deduced as he grabbed his razor and lathered his face with shaving cream. He saw the look of concern out of his peripheral vision when he saw Greg eyeing the razor. "Don't worry, Lestrade. I wouldn't try and slit my own throat in front of you. Besides, it'd be quite a mess for John to have to clean up."

Greg looked at him with hard eyes. "That's not bloody funny, Sherlock, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't treat your attempted suicides as some damn joke!"

Sherlock let his smile fade now and just nodded curtly before he started to shave the stubble off his face. The two were silent for several minutes as the detective shaved and he couldn't even ask Lestrade to leave while he did so; he knew why he stayed, and he knew he had no right to question it. He knew he had lost Lestrade's trust and he wasn't going to earn it back any time soon. When he was done, he rinsed his face off with warm water and then dried it off before he turned back to him.

"Do you mind if I at least get dressed alone?"

Sherlock still wasn't feeling one hundred percent but he knew that getting dressed would at least stop both Greg and John from nagging him to do things. It was a step in the right direction, anyway.

"You have five minutes and I'm coming in, done or not," Greg warned, walking back over towards the television but didn't sit down.

Sherlock walked into the bedroom and got changed into what he considered to be casual clothes, clothes he wouldn't go outside in but clothes that he still felt comfortable to be in. He might've still been in a slump but he didn't think that was any reason to stay in his sheet for more than three days straight. When he walked back out, he saw Greg looking back at him with olive green eyes still laced with concern.

"Sherlock, you really should eat something. You're looking downright skeletal," he remarked, looking grimly at the detective.

He scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes, about to protest until he remembered what John had said to him earlier before he left.

"_Lestrade will tell me if you actually ate or not…" _

"How considerate of you to notice. Would you like something to eat or are you going to force me to eat by myself?" Sherlock asked, attempting to sound teasing but cringed inside when he heard the own ice in his voice.

Lestrade seemed used to Sherlock's demeanor towards him; he seemed completely unfazed as he walked into the kitchen with the younger man. He looked in the fridge and found some salmon. He looked thoughtfully back at Sherlock who was hanging out by the window.

"How does salmon strike you for a late lunch?"

Sherlock looked at the Detective Inspector with surprise but he nodded. "Sure, why not? That should get the two of you off my back."

Lestrade grabbed a pan out of the bottom cupboard and started to prepare it. He sprinkled herbs on top of it before he let it sit in a pan of melted butter. Once he flipped it over, he looked over at Sherlock.

"Yes, there obviously something on your mind? Go ahead, ask."

Greg clenched his jaw. "Have you told John about… you know?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "No, I have not! Are we honestly going to jump back into this again? I told you, I'll tell him when I'm ready to tell him! It's not going to make any bit of fucking difference if I tell him about what I did or not though! Why should he care? It's not like it affects him or changes any of it…"

Greg gave a soft growl of irritation but his eyes were still soft. "You might not believe it makes any difference but to normal people it does. Put yourself in his shoes and pretend you can actually relate and empathize with other people for two seconds! What if you found out your flatmate and best friend had a history of suicide attempts and was hiding a big goddamn secret from him involving his hellish childhood! How would you feel?"

Sherlock thought about this, trying hard to put himself in John's place. "Well, I suppose I'd be worried about how I would be able to pay rent if my flatmate was serious about ending his life."

"You're putting me off now, aren't you? Please tell me you're not actually serious!" Lestrade barked.

He couldn't help thinking more of the rational logic rather than the emotional logic. It was ironic. Even though he felt more emotion he ever wanted to, he had difficulty relating to other people. The whole sociopath label was such a farce.

"I… don't know, Lestrade. I don't know how I would feel if John told me he was suicidal instead of it being me. It's an impossible situation that'll never happen and the fact that it _is _me instead of him who's severely depressed with suicide attempts in my past makes it especially hard for me to put myself in that position," Sherlock answered, the dark clouds coming back to hover over him again.

"I understand that you're different from other people, Sherlock. That's not a secret, but I'll tell you how he'll feel if you continue to hide this from him." Greg placed the salmon in the frying pan and turned the fire on low underneath it. "He's going to feel hurt and betrayed that you've kept it from him for so long. John's going to be terrified of losing you to your own thoughts."

Sherlock swallowed hard, picturing the scene in his head. He could see a frantic John Watson, trying to grasp it all, trying to understand how this could've happened to Sherlock Holmes. He could see John becoming upset once he told him about his childhood and the traumatic things he had gone through. Granted, Sherlock couldn't relate to other humans but he knew John well enough to know how he would react in certain situations. The thought of seeing the pain of betrayal and hurt in his best friend's eyes made his chest ache and his heart pound.

"I don't want him to hurt, Lestrade. He puts up with enough about me almost daily and dropping those bombshells might make him want to leave. He's forgiving, very forgiving, but it wouldn't take much to break his friendship. I don't want to lose him in my life," Sherlock confessed, his voice soft and low and his head started to pound again.

Lestrade nodded in understanding before he flipped the fish in the pan, turning back to Sherlock. "I know it's hard for you and I'll stop hassling you about telling him only because I know that it really affected you and I don't want you to go over the edge again." There was an awkward silence between them before the detective spoke again. "Go on into the living room. I'll bring it in when it's done."

Sherlock didn't argue, eager to get away from the amount of uncomfortable in the kitchen. He walked over and sat down on the couch, looking back towards the window, wondering where John was. He just wanted to see him again. He wanted him to come back so they could talk like they used to. About five minutes later, Lestrade brought in a small plate of salmon to him and the two ate in silence as Greg watched the football on the television, occasionally letting out cheers as the team he had bet on scored or cursed when the opposing team did.

Even once they were done eating, Sherlock fell asleep finally, his head on the back of the couch and only faintly felt Greg pull a real blanket over his body before he turned his attention back to the game.

Sherlock woke up abruptly to the sound of clattering and clanking. He looked at the clock on the fireplace.

9:30.

John had been gone for nearly six hours. Where was he? What kind of errands did he have to do that required so much time? Sherlock glanced over to see Greg washing the dishes Sherlock had left in the sink several days ago, just before his depression had really hit him hard, leaving him emotionally incapacitated to do any chores.

"You can go home if you want, Lestrade. Don't feel like you should stay here and look after me," Sherlock yawned sleepily.

Greg gave him a sympathetic look and shrugged. "I don't have much to go home to, honestly. The wife left with the kids a couple weeks ago when we had that really hot case so… it's nice to have someone to talk to. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here until John gets back."

Sherlock rested his head again on the back of the couch but still looked at him. He smirked playfully. "Wow, that's saying something… wanting to be in my poor company instead of being at home where you could actually have a decent time alone."

"Stop talking so rotten about yourself, Sherlock. You're not an easy person to be around at first but I've gotten used to your personality that it doesn't even bother me anymore. You're not as bad as you think you are, you know."

Sherlock felt sceptical about that but felt too tired to argue. It was like his body might finally let him be somewhat normal again. He exhaled before he thought about texting John to see where he was, just to make sure he was okay. The thought quickly was erased when he saw the very person enter the flat, looking dishevelled.

"Hey, you're home! You made it finally…" Sherlock greeted and watched as Greg came out to see who Sherlock was talking to.

John gave a smile and a polite nod to Lestrade before he took off his coat and hung it up. When he turned back to face Sherlock, the guilt in his eyes was gone and he looked happy, or at the very least, content. "Hello, Sherlock. Feeling any better then?"

The detective gave a small shrug. "I ate something."

John smiled a smile that went to his eyes as well. "That's great, Sherlock… I'm glad." His smile quickly faded though when he saw the cut on his friend's forehead. He moved in closer to look at it and his contented demeanor turned into worry.

"What did you do? What happened?"

Greg awkwardly scratched the back of his head and seemed to shrink slightly. "He fainted in the bathroom and hit his head."

Sherlock shot a dark look towards Lestrade now, willing him to burst into flames. "I'm fine! It stopped bleeding. I didn't need stitches or anything."

John was still examining the cut before he looked back at Greg. "You didn't think about notifying me about it? Or taking him to the hospital?"

Greg gave him a feeble shrug and scoffed. "He seemed to be fine! He just had a headache – "

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Will you please just shut up now, Lestrade?!"

"A headache?" John sighed impatiently, ignoring Sherlock. "That's a sign of a concussion, Greg." He finally turned back to the detective and searched his face. "Have you had any loss of consciousness since you woke up earlier or had an amnesia or anything, Sherlock?"

"No, John! I'm bloody fine, now leave me alone!"

John sat back and ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. You say you're all right, then I'll believe you but tell me if you can't remember something or if you start having slowed reaction times to anything, okay?"

Sherlock waved John away and watched as he disappeared into his room on the other side. He shot a look at Greg now. "You couldn't have just kept your mouth shut, Lestrade? Or have at least lied for me?"

Greg leaned in now. "That's what you would've had me do? Lied? You just live your whole life on lies, don't you, Sherlock?" Lestrade hissed at him so John wouldn't be able to hear them. "You can't keep lying your way through friendships or life or anything in this world and the sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not lying if I don't tell him! It's just me not telling him!" he hissed back.

Greg straightened up now and put his scarf and coat back on. "It's lying, Sherlock. It's really amazing to me though how you can believe your own lies… believing that not telling John won't hurt him. Think about what I said."

Sherlock watched as the detective walked towards John's room and said his goodbyes before he left their flat, leaving him and the doctor alone again. He looked down at his hands and chewed on his lip, waiting for him to come back out. It was now or never.

"Err… John? Can you please come out here for a moment?"

John adhered to his friend's request and threw his arms up casually. "Yeah, what's going on?"

Sherlock felt his tongue twist into a knot as he admired the handsome man standing in front of him. Brave, courageous, intelligent-in-his-own-way John. He felt his insides turn to jelly as he trying to force the words out of his mouth.

"I have something I need to tell you…" Sherlock started, swallowing hard. "I… I believe I am… err… falling in love with you," he stammered awkwardly, chuckling nervously.

When he looked up at him, his insides hardened and he saw John become pale and the guilt flood his friend's face, worse than it had before now. His heart raced in his chest and he felt like the silence was about to drown him. "P-Please say something, John… I'm feeling like an incredible fool at the moment."

John looked down at the ground and sighed before he ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to look at Sherlock with a defeated look in his eyes. "I-I've… found someone… else."


	3. Drowning

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers! It feels so good to see I'm doing something right. Please keep those reviews coming!

Also, I apologize for super short chapter. I'll try to make it up in the next chapter!

* * *

Chapter Three: Drowning

.o.o.

.o.

_Oh, please don't go_

_I want you so_

_I can't let go_

_For I lose control_

_Get these left handed lovers out of your way_

_They look hopeful but you, you should not stay_

_If you want me to break down and give you the keys_

_I can do that but I can't let you leave_

**Barcelona – Please Don't Go**

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock felt his heart shatter against his ribcage before finally sinking into his stomach, feeling each jagged shard cut into his stomach lining. He blinked for several moments, trying to take in this information but wishing it wasn't true. John had to be playing a cruel joke; this just couldn't be happening right now.

"I-I'm sorry… I believe I must have… misheard you speak. What did you say?"

"I have… fallen in love with someone, Sherlock. They're… really amazing," he struggled, trying not to look overwhelmingly happy after having heard his friend's own confession to him. "I'm… so sorry, Sherlock. I had no idea you felt that way about me."

The detective didn't know how to react. He felt like John had thrown him into the ocean without a life preserver and then walked away. Sherlock had put himself out there and let himself feel vulnerable for John's sake and it had backfired horribly. He cleared his throat before he just nodded at John's statement, determined not to let him see the pain he felt inside. He couldn't let John see. Not now when his friend was happy. Sherlock was selfish but only up to a certain point, and he only wanted John to be content with whatever choices he made. Despite the absolute heartache he was feeling at this moment, he wasn't going to let it show in front of him.

"Well, that's fantastic, John. I'm very happy for you. You deserve this. Yes, you deserve to be happy… with… this new person. Err… I suspect you're going to move your things into their flat then?" Sherlock asked, swallowing the daggers he felt on the tip of his tongue.

"Erm... not quite yet. If… if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here a bit longer, just to make sure everything's going to work out. I'm sorry – did you say you're happy for me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock saw the surprise in John's eyes but he also saw what he identified as hope. John wanted him to be happy for him; that was only natural, of course. Inside, he wanted to scream at him, wish him dead for having fallen in love with someone else who wasn't him. He wanted to break things and then press his lips against John's just to feel loved by him. Now, that wasn't going to happen. "Of course I am, John. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, well, maybe the fact that you literally just confessed how you're falling in love with me might a reason not to be happy for me," John answered, standing in front of his friend uneasily. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?"

Sherlock looked away nervously before he clenched his jaw to bite back the profanities he yearned to yell at him right now. "I… I don't know, John. Honestly, I suppose I didn't realize the feelings I've felt for you were… rational. I assumed you… didn't feel the same way about me so I ignore my feelings. Anyway, err… congratulations. I-I'm glad you found someone that makes you happy. I wish you the best."

John clicked his tongue, his eyes unsure but hesitant on pushing Sherlock's acceptance. He knew this wasn't right but John didn't know what to do. He loved Sherlock, as a friend, because that's all he could do now. His heart was with this other person now. He couldn't love both of them; no, that wouldn't be fair to anyone. He looked down at the floor before he anxiously rubbed the back of his neck before turning his attention back to Sherlock who was looking stoic, his back straightened.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Are you sure you're all right, then? I… I'm still sorry. I just can't, you know? I suppose it's simply bad timing and all that…" John trailed off.

Sherlock nodded, swallowing hard. "Right, bad timing. No, I'm… I assure you I'm fine, John. It was my own fault. I suppose I waited too long. Someone else beat me to the punch." He forced a chuckle and forced a weak smirk even harder, as if his life depended on it.

The two men stood facing each other, quiet for several moments before John spoke. "Err, right. Do you mind if… I go out tonight? We haven't had a case and I sort of want to use the opportunity to go on my real, first date, you know?"

Sherlock kept his body straight and still, like stone. He nodded, perhaps over enthusiastically now. "Yes, of course. By all means… you two have a lovely time. Believe you me, I won't wait up…"

John gave him an agreeable nod but he felt like he could see through his friend. "This doesn't change anything between us, Sherlock. We're still good mates, right?"

Sherlock searched John's eyes and then turned around to grab his coat. "Yes, right. Of course we are, John! Now if you'll excuse me, I just need to pop out for a bit." He didn't wait for a response from John before he hurried down the stairs and finally made his way onto the street.

He paced wildly, letting the emotions he had been holding onto inside finally come out. Sherlock started quickly walking down the street, his hands in his pockets, trying to decide where he wanted to go. His heart was broken and he actually felt like everything else was meaningless. This other person must have really been special if John still chose him over the flatmate he had lived with for a few years and gone on adventures with. He let his tears blur his vision as he walked down the sidewalk hurriedly, deciding to turn to the only person he had previous dealings with in the past; a person he thought he was done with.

He didn't stop until he turned into an alleyway and walked deeper into it until he came across the man who had previously sold him his more illegal drugs in the past, before he had met John.

"D-Do you've got any?" he asked him, trying to hide the fact he had been sobbing just moments earlier in public, nonetheless.

The man glanced around before he slipped two small bottles of clear liquid into Sherlock's coat pocket and then took the bill from in between the detective's fingers casually. Once he left the alley, Sherlock didn't stop until he arrived back at the flat, this time, taking his time. He knew he'd have to see John at least once more before he went out on his date.

This all seemed reasonable and logical to Sherlock as he prodded up the stairs and came back into the flat, listening to the sound of the shower in the bathroom as John got ready for his date. He sat back down on the couch and took out a cigarette before he lit it, letting the nicotine swim through his bloodstream.

"Oh good, you're back already. I need your opinion," John walked into his room and came back with two cardigans, different patterns.

Sherlock looked at him and wondered for a split second if John was doing this on purpose, just to make him feel jealous. He cast that thought out once he remembered what kind of person John actually was. He wouldn't do that.

"Which one?"

Sherlock felt like he had swallowed more rocks. The man he was in love with was asking for fashion advice for the date he had with his significant other tonight, that wasn't Sherlock. It felt like a cruel fate. "The grey and red one. It looks better on you."

John nodded his gratitude and disappeared into his bedroom to get ready. Sherlock put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. This felt like one big nightmare that he couldn't wake up from. It would've been better if John had told him he was going to move out and live with whoever his new partner was. At least then, Sherlock wouldn't be forced to tell him which outfits to wear on his dates. John seemed completely oblivious to his own misery he was feeling and it hurt.

He took another drag off his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, closing his eyes. This made John happy and although he wanted to scream and cry, it wouldn't change things. You couldn't help who you loved, and if John had really fallen in love with this person before he even knew his own feelings for Sherlock, then this is what he deserved more than anything. It had been Sherlock's own fault for not voicing his opinion about John, for waiting for two years with this secret. He took another drag just as John came back out, clean shaven.

Sherlock felt sick as he smelled John's oaky cologne wafting in the flat. John turned to face his friend as he straightened himself. "Are you sure you're okay about this, Sherlock? I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."

John seemed sincere but inside, Sherlock Holmes was screaming. _No, this is anything but okay! I am not okay! This isn't how it was supposed to be! Why are you doing this?! I love you! I've loved you longer than this other person has! It's not fair!_

"I completely understand, John," Sherlock replied curtly. "It's perfectly fine. You two have fun. I'll be here when you come back."

John now shifted his weight, apparently uncomfortable. He bit his lip. "Well actually, I was hoping to spend the night at their house, if you didn't have any plans for us tonight, that is."

Sherlock's discomfort and agony turned into ice that he could feel in his veins now. "No, go right ahead. I'll be okay on my own here at home. I have things to keep me occupied."

John looked reluctant but nodded. "Okay, then. If you're sure. I'll see you sometime tomorrow morning."

Sherlock waited until he heard the door close when he took another drag from his cigarette before he put it out in the ashtray and then stood up slowly before he walked over to his desk where manila folders lay strewed across it. He opened up one of the smaller drawers and pulled out what he was looking for.

His syringe. He took out one of the bottles from his pockets and took off his coat before he grabbed a belt from his room and wrapped the belt around his forearm and hit the skin hard, looking for a vein. Once he had found one, he plunged the syringe into the bottle before soaking it up, and then hitting the vein with the needle before he pushed down on the plunger, injecting the morphine solution into his body.

He quickly threw the syringe back into the drawer before he was too far gone and stumbled a few steps forward before he fell onto his knees and let his body fell the rest of the way onto his stomach but then rolled over.

It was less risky to get his morphine in an alley than from the hospital. Bart's knew his past history from accidental overdoses and Sherlock didn't need the bad publicity once people found out. It was just easier this way.

His eyes rolled upwards in relief and he fell back onto the floor, feeling something he didn't know he could feel again after his confession to John: a peaceful ecstasy that let him relax completely.

Sherlock didn't need to pretend anymore. He didn't have to pretend he was okay when he was dying inside. This was losing all hope and letting the drugs make him feel the happiness he couldn't feel otherwise. He exhaled slowly, feeling his heartbeat in his head and feeling tired. It didn't matter though. Nothing mattered right now except this feeling.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

When he woke up the next morning, he heard a voice yelling at him to wake up and then through bleary eyes, he saw John. He faintly felt taps on his cheeks and then felt a wetness on his skin.

"Mmmm?"

"Sherlock! Can you hear me? Look at me, mate. Open your eyes…"

The detective rolled his heavy head, still feeling the high from last night. "J-John," he slurred. "What are you doing back so soon…?"

The doctor shined a light in Sherlock's eyes and sighed in partial relief when the detective weakly slapped his hand away. "Jesus, Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack… what the hell did you take?"

Sherlock felt around but didn't feel the bottle anywhere. He then felt it in his pants. Good, then. John hadn't taken it. "Mmm… nothing. Just some sleeping pills. 'M all right…"

John sat back on his knees and looked at his friend with worry in his eyes still but seemed to have bought it. Next time, try taking them in your bed. You scared the hell out of me."

Sherlock forced himself to sit up but his limbs still felt numb and his head still felt fuzzy. "E-Errm… would you mind helping me into my bed? I'd like to go back to sleep again, John…" he made a feeble attempt to hide his slurring but prayed John would chalk it up to fatigue.

He helped Sherlock stand up on his feet and the detective mostly leaned on him, if not just to smell the cologne that still had left trails on him. Then with an overwhelming amount of depression, he realized that this was most likely the closest he would ever get to John. He felt tears fill his eyes before he let John help him into the bed.

"When was the last time you even had a proper night's sleep?"

"Mm…" Sherlock tried to think but the morphine was clouding everything. "A long time…" he finally managed to get out before he hugged the blankets close to him.

John closed the door on his way out and Sherlock was left alone again. When he touched his face again, he felt the tears from earlier that he hadn't realized he had cried. What had John thought about them? Maybe he thought it was just Sherlock laughing himself to tears or…

Or maybe John realized why Sherlock had been crying but decided to ignore it? That was a possibility. The doctor knew about his black spells of depression he had. Maybe John just assumed it had been that?

He shoved his face into his blanket and weakly gripped the fabric as he started to really sob now, willing John to move out and leave him to his misery. The whole situation was just ten times worse with him still living in the flat with Sherlock. He didn't want to feel anymore. He wished John hadn't come home yet; everything was coming back to him again and now he felt more foolish and depressed than before.

He closed his eyes and let himself slip back into his morphine induced state, letting the rest of the world, including John, fall away.


	4. Shattered

A/N: Thank you for the review, **Ayno23! **I love that you called it Shersitting and that's my new favourite word now!

I'm glad you're enjoying it! Please keep reviewing?

* * *

Chapter Four: Shattered

.o.o.

.o. 

_It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all_

_The opposite of love's indifference_

_So pay attention now, I'm standing on your porch screaming out_

_And I won't leave until you come downstairs_

_So keep your head up, keep your love_

_Keep your head up, my love _

_Keep your head up, keep your love_

_The Lumineers – Stubborn Love_

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock cringed when he woke up to the sound of a cup breaking from the kitchen, and then the faint sound of John cursing. He reluctantly rolled over and forced himself out of bed before he put on his crimson robe and pocketed his phone as he started to walk out of his bedroom.

His limbs felt disused and strained, his thoughts were still slightly fuzzy but other than that, he just felt numb. Maybe this was better. Sherlock felt his heart sink however when he saw John kneeling on the linoleum tiled floor in the kitchen as he attempted to pick up the pieces of the tea cup he had dropped. He swallowed hard, feeling like the cup was merely a euphemism for his own shattered heart.

_How very appropriate._

"Ah, Jesus… I'm sorry, Sherlock," John apologized, glancing up at him. "I was hoping that wouldn't have woken you up. I… I accidentally bumped it off the counter reaching for the sugar."

The detective searched his friend's face, willing him to break up with whoever he was now going out with and get with him. "You don't take sugar in your tea," he remarked in a distant voice.

John half shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I was making it for you, actually. You didn't seem all there last night and I just thought maybe a cuppa would help wake you up some, clear your head."

Sherlock sighed inwardly, only wanting John to move out and let him be with his dark thoughts and broken heart. Wasn't it enough he had been rejected? Why did John had to pour salt in the wound by staying at the flat with him? It felt like he was shoving his new relationship and the impossibility of them in his face. It wasn't right; it wasn't fair. Something had to be done.

"John, I… err… I believe we need to talk about something…"

The doctor finished cleaning up the remaining shards and then turned his attention towards Sherlock. "Oh? What about?"

Sherlock looked down at the rug for a few long moments, afraid to meet John's face. This was a catch 22. If he told John to leave, then he might never be able to feel John help him into bed again or smell his cologne. On the other hand, if John stayed, Sherlock wasn't too sure if he could be around the man.

Sherlock cleared his throat and finally looked back up at him. "I… I think it might be best for you if you gathered your things and moved in with your new… person of interest. I mean, isn't that what _normal_ people do when they find someone they love?"

John gave him a curious, sideways glance before he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, not quite the minute they figure out they love the person but eventually that's what they do, I suppose. I know why you're asking me to move out, Sherlock, but I just want to hear it from your own mouth."

The consulting detective made himself taller and forced himself to put up a front. "What do you mean, John?"

"I want to hear you tell me why you want me to move out, Sherlock. I already know but I just want to hear the words come out of your own mouth," John replied, looking at his friend expectantly.

Sherlock glanced off to the side and rolled his eyes, feeling like this was some sick game John was playing with him, tearing him into pieces. "If you already know, then you don't need me to say it." His voice was colder than he had intended but he was having difficulty hiding his pain.

John took several steps towards Sherlock until they were inches apart. He looked up into Sherlock's dark blue eyes. "You can act mechanical all you want but I know the true you. I know that things bother you, if when you claim they don't. I didn't… want to break your heart, Sherlock. This… just sort of happened and it was bad timing. You can't help who you fall in love with, and you, of all people, should know that better than anyone else. I know you didn't expect it but neither did I and if it'll make things easier for you, I will move out. I've been thinking about yesterday and all I could deduct about myself is that I probably sounded like a real prick to you but I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

Sherlock took a deep breath, thinking how to go about this. He chewed on his lower lip unsurely. He wanted to scream 'if you want to make me happy, then be with me!' but he knew he couldn't do that. That'd make him appear childish as well as needy and clingy. That's not how he wanted John to see him. He pushed back his most inner feelings and let the armour cover over his heart, shielding it from future blows by John.

"You didn't… break my heart, John. I assure you it takes more than a confession like that to break my heart. Anyway, weren't you the one who told me I haven't even got one? How can a heart break if it's not even in my body?" Sherlock drawled in his matter-of-fact tone. "I only figure if you move out, I might be able to focus on more important things. You've become a distraction with your new close friend. I just think it would be for the best."

He could see the anger grow in John's eyes now and the hurt swell but Sherlock couldn't feel any empathy for him when he felt like John had knowingly broken his heart. He had made himself vulnerable and put himself out there for the first time in his whole miserable life only to have John tell him he loved someone else. He felt like oil had replaced his blood that had once pumped through him, turning his love and his own life to sludge. He couldn't help his own bitterness he felt.

John nodded now and cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "All right, then. If… if that's what you really want, I suppose I best start packing my things."

Sherlock kept himself straight, not daring to stop him. If he did now, it would just leave him more heartbroken than before. This was for the best. He had to do this. "Yes, I believe you should start doing that."

He turned around now and started back towards his room, closing the door behind him before John could say anything else to him. As soon as the door closed, it was now when he let his tears fall down his cheeks and cried silently on his bed as his hands trembled. He gripped the sheets tightly before he unclenched them, feeling his insides doing the same rhythm. Sherlock felt sick with himself; he had fucked up good and proper now, practically ordering him to move out of the flat. He waited until he heard John close the door before he walked back out into the living room and realized just how much of John's presence had made its appearance in the flat.

Most of a whole shelf of books were gone that John had brought with him from his first place. A couple blankets were missing off John's old armchair, as well as his shoes that he usually took off on the rug by the fireplace. It looked empty even though the rest of Sherlock's belongings were still there in the flat. As he stood there in the stillness, he felt just as empty and alone. For four years, he had known nothing else but John and the demons that haunted him. Now that both of those things were gone, all Sherlock had now was his own existence and even that seemed questionable.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to fall into pieces but he heard a strange, gasping sob escape his mouth now and felt hot tears make trails down his face. Suddenly, it felt like his legs were made of jelly again and he couldn't balance himself. John had been the third leg of his tripod and now that that leg had been kicked out from underneath him, Sherlock felt himself collapse on the floor. He cried until he felt like his lungs might burst inside of his chest. He had no idea how long it had been but then he heard his phone chime.

He took it out reluctantly and looked at the new message he had received:

_I heard what happened. Do you need to talk, Sherlock? - DI Lestrade _

He looked at the words on his phone and an ugly blackness crept over him, threatening to drown him. He quickly typed back in reply:

_No. I do not need to talk to you, nor do I want to. For future reference, leave me alone. – SH_

He hit the send button before he pocketed it and then quickly grabbed the materials he needed. He forced himself back up and grabbed the syringe from his desk before he grabbed the morphine bottle from his pocket, and then the belt from his room. He wrapped the belt around his arm before gathering the drug into the syringe, repeating the same procedure he had performed on himself the previous day.

Tap the arm for a vein.

Stick the needle in, push down on the plunger.

Slip into oblivion.

Once he felt the euphoric sensation take him over, washing his pain and sorrow away before turning it to a beautiful numbness again, he let his body fall back onto the rug near John's armchair and let himself curl into a fetal position, closing his eyes before he started to ride the high.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

When Sherlock woke up again, he had no idea what time or day it was. He only felt the numbness beginning to disappear again to be replaced with his sadness. He thought about repeating his morphine routine again, just to make everything go away, but he was bored with it. He wanted something else, something stronger. Something that made replaced his pain with an alternative pain. A more physical pain.

He staggered to his feet and then collected himself before he moved towards the desk and started to rummage through the drawers. He remembered that he had used a razorblade to scratch away part of the wallpaper inside a house that had been the location of a past case. He dug around until he found the box he had kept it in, perhaps for the sentimental reason that it was one of the tougher cases he had been able to solve when the odds were against him.

He opened it and took out the cold piece of metal before he swallowed hard. Sherlock quickly took off the belt around his pale around from last night and then exhaled slowly before he made horizontal lines in his skin, pressing down just hard enough to draw blood and made a small incision into his skin. He did this several times before he felt an odd relief wash over him. It were as if he had opened his skin and let the sorrow and numbness out, embracing the physical pain he had inflicted upon himself instead of the emotional John had inflicted upon him. He grabbed a washcloth and placed it over his cuts to help make it clot faster and stop the bleeding.

Once it had, he rolled his sleeve back down, hiding his newfound addiction. It seemed illogical, past the point of understanding how this small weapon gave him a sick relief. Sherlock pocketed the blade and then heard his phone chime annoyingly again. He picked it up and sighed when he saw the second text Lestrade had sent him.

_Let me in. I'm right outside. – DI Lestrade_

He debated ignoring the Detective Inspector but knew he'd find his way into the flat eventually anyway. Besides, Sherlock no longer wanted to be alone and even Lestrade was better than no one at all.

He stood up and then slowly opened the door to see Greg balancing his phone and two cups of coffee in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at him.

"Amazing how you're able to text me with your hands full yet you couldn't find the ability to simply open the door yourself," Sherlock scowled slightly.

Lestrade ignored him and walked inside, handing him one of the cups of coffee before he pocketed his phone and closed the door behind him. He searched Sherlock's face and then frowned. "You haven't been eating, have you, Sherlock?"

I ate yesterday when you were here!" he exclaimed, half offended as he took his seat on the couch.

Greg set his coffee down on the coffee table before he started into the kitchen. "That was the other day! For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you need to eat or else you're going to wilt away and die. I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen."

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and then looked down at it. He wanted to feel angry at Greg Lestrade for nagging him and for his determination but there was also another part of him that realized this man truly did care about his well-being. Regardless of the Scotland Yarder having had saved Sherlock from his past suicide attempts, he felt like Lestrade actually did want Sherlock to keep on breathing, even if he neglected himself so badly that he did not want to. He had to be grateful towards him; he was doing what John normally did and now that John was gone, it seemed up to Lestrade to take over.

All the times in the past, before Sherlock had met John, Lestrade had always been there to clean up his messes, cover for him, make up lies for him, make sure he ate enough to survive, and did what he could to help the consulting detective sleep during his restless nights. It was rare when this man saw Sherlock actually cry, but when he did, he never judged or asked too many questions. He listened to Sherlock rant and tried to give him fatherly advice. In his heart, Sherlock knew that he basically owed his entire life to Lestrade.

"What did John tell you?" he asked curiously, looking over to see Greg making Sherlock a sandwich.

Lestrade didn't look over at him as he shrugged. "Not much, only that you two had a… falling out of sorts and that you told him to get out. Why did you do that?"

Sherlock took another sip of his coffee, giving himself time to compile the jumbled thoughts in his head. "He loves someone else that isn't me, Lestrade. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

Greg finished the sandwich and brought it to him on a plate, placing it on the coffee table before he sat down next to him on the couch. "So you kick the guy out? Do you really think that punishing him for something he has no control over will somehow fix things?"

Sherlock could tell Lestrade wasn't trying to be argumentative, only trying to make Sherlock think about the situation. He looked at the sandwich and felt nauseous. He looked up at the DI. "People must be able to have some control about who they decide to base their entire lives around. I know nothing of this other person John claims to love! I'm right here, I just want him to see me and – "

"And what?" Lestrade cut across him. "Magically fall in love with you so you two can live happily ever after? I'm sorry, Sherlock but that's just not how things work in the real world."

Sherlock couldn't help but show a slight knowing smirk. "John does love me. I've seen the looks during our cases when I've figured something out. I've seen his admiration. He's loyal to me, Lestrade, and sometimes that's the most important factor in a relationship – loyalty."

Greg searched Sherlock's eyes before he shook his head, sighing in partial exasperation. "For God's sake, Sherlock, the man isn't a bloody dog! Loyalty doesn't mean much. I mean, it means a bit but it's not the most important factor. Trust is."

Sherlock waved off the word as if it was an annoying insect that had flown into the room and was buzzing about his head. "Trust… maybe. What has trust gotten me, Lestrade? I trusted John not to shatter my heart like he shattered my tea cup earlier and he did it anyway. Trust only goes as far as the other person allows it to, but loyalty shows people where they truly stand with someone else. John's loyalty to me exceeded my expectations. He chose me above everything else. He believed _me_ above everyone else, and that makes all the difference. I know he loves me back. I just wish that he could say it to me."

Greg Lestrade could see the frustration on his younger friend and colleague's face. He gave him a small, sympathetic look. "Sherlock, I know what you're going through is… devastating for you but you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that maybe you've got your wires crossed and he doesn't think of you in the same way you think of him."

Sherlock immediately started to shake his head in denial. "My deductions are rarely ever wrong and you know it, Lestrade. I have a very strong intuition and… I need to believe that John feels the same way or else I don't know. What's the point of _anything_ if the person you love doesn't love you back? Why even bother with anything else?"

These questions made Greg straighten up and made him shift uncomfortably on the couch. He searched the detective's face, recognizing the pain in his eyes. This was how he felt just before his past suicide attempts. Granted, at the time Sherlock hadn't been depressed about an unreciprocated love, but it was still the same longing, lost look in his blue eyes that made Greg squirm. He repositioned himself on the couch so he could fully focus on Sherlock.

"You… you can't think like that again, Sherlock. You just can't. There's a point to all of it but you need to live long enough to actually see what it is."

Sherlock set his coffee down now and looked out the window with far away eyes. "I'm _sick_ of waiting. At the risk of sounding like a petulant child, it isn't fair that John is with this other person instead of me. We've been together through a hell of a lot more things than they have. I might as well just… climb to the top of Bart's and throw myself off of it for real this time."

Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock with concerned eyes. "How serious should I take what you just said, Sherlock?"

He exhaled through his nose before he absentmindedly caressed his hand over the spot where he had self-injured himself half an hour earlier. He let the stinging sensation take over. Sherlock somehow needed to remedy what he had just said. If Greg knew how serious he actually felt about ending his life right now, he'd be taken inside the hospital put on suicide watch, handcuffed to the bed until he swore he wouldn't do it.

"I'm not serious at all, Lestrade. I'm just… frustrated is all. I wouldn't attempt again," he tried to sound convincing.

Lestrade relaxed slightly but didn't look entirely persuaded. He just nodded in understanding. "Sherlock, if you are feeling that way again…" he trailed off, letting the sentence finish itself.

He shook his head curtly. "I'm not, I assure you. I'm not planning on ending my life any time soon so don't go making reservations for me at St. Bart's. I'll get through this but I don't need your help, Lestrade. Most of all, I don't need a babysitter to watch me."

Lestrade looked like he wanted to dispute this with Sherlock's past history but he said nothing. He just bit his lip and took another sip of his coffee, leaving the two of them sitting in a long silence before he glanced at Sherlock's uneaten sandwich. "Come on, at least eat your lunch. You need to eat something or else I won't leave."

The threat of staying where he was made Sherlock reach for the sandwich grudgingly and took a small bite out of it before he chewed and swallowed. Lestrade smiled now and chuckled, shaking his head at Sherlock.

"I knew that would get you to eat."

Sherlock took another bite, eager to get Greg out of the flat as soon as possible. His patience with him had been cut short once the DI had started to silently threaten to have him locked up somewhere to prevent another attempt. He hadn't needed to even say anything at all. Sherlock knew what Lestrade had meant when he had asked him how serious he was. It was an assumed threat; a threat that Sherlock did not appreciate.

Once Sherlock had finished his sandwich, Lestrade had stood back up but hadn't left yet, casting unsure looks in his direction. He scratched the back of his head nervously. "If… you need anything, even just someone to talk to, don't ignore me. You have my number and you bloody well call it if you're not feeling your best. Do you understand?"

He sensed a playful coldness in Lestrade's voice but he knew better than to assume the DI was angry at him. Sherlock was smart enough to know by now that the ice that covered Lestrade's words were only there to hide his anxiety about leaving him alone. He nodded and looked up at him with almost fearful eyes, daring to let his vulnerability show.

As soon as Lestrade had made his way over to the door, Sherlock found himself filling up with sorrow again. He realized maybe he really didn't want to be alone again after all. "E-Err… I believe there might be another football game this afternoon in case you'd like to… maybe stay and watch it here for a while?"

Greg turned around to look at Sherlock and nodded, sighing but smiling a soft smile. "Sure, of course. Let me just go run an errand real quick and I'll be back in about twenty minutes. Will you be okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again in fake annoyance. "It's twenty minutes, Lestrade. I doubt I'm going to be overcome with crimpling depression in that time." It was a huge façade and the DI saw right through it.

"Don't even joke about it, Sherlock! You know just as well as I do that it _has _happened in the past. If you feel it coming on, text me and I'll be back here as soon as I can," Greg left the flat, leaving Sherlock alone.

The truth was that the depression hadn't gone completely away, even when Lestrade had shown up. It had only receded into the corners of his mind, still lingering there and lying in wait. Sherlock took a deep breath, fingering the outline of the blade in his pocket and suddenly feeling dizzy with the urge to use it again.

No. He couldn't cut into himself again, at least not within twenty minutes. That wasn't enough time to let himself feel the relief the blade brought him and clean himself up afterwards. Besides, if he cut too deep, Greg would see and take him to the hospital himself. Sherlock couldn't take that risk. He took a few more deep breaths to try and calm himself before he took out a cigarette and lit it instead, letting the nicotine swim through his system freely, helping him relax again, at least until Lestrade came back.

What would happen then though? Sherlock could only talk him into staying at the flat for so long. What would happen once he finally went home?

He knew the answer to that, and it scared him but only for a few moments. Then the thought excited him, making him feel dizzy again. Sherlock exhaled the cigarette smoke, a part of him hoping that if he did go through with it, John would see his broken body and know that he was the reason for it. Sherlock knew he was being vindictive and vengeful in the worst way possible but he couldn't stop the anger and agony he felt inside of him, eating away at his broken heart and gnawing away at his clouded thoughts that were riddled with depression like shrapnel in a wound. He only wanted the one thing he couldn't have.

John Hamish Watson.


	5. Fatal Attractions

A/N: Thank you for the review again! Sincerely appreciate it!

* * *

Chapter Five: Fatal Attractions

.o.o.

.o.

_Wait! They don't love you like I love you_

_Wait! They don't love you like I love you_

_Ma-a-a-aps, wait!_

_They don't love you like I love you..._

_Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps_

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

As Sherlock lay on the couch playing with his phone and half watching an emotional Greg Lestrade watching the footie game on television, he found himself needing to know who exactly John had fallen in love. He didn't know anything about this person, whether it was a man or a woman, and that frustrated the detective the most.

He needed to know, but he also had to think about how to go about it. He wet his lips before he looked over at Lestrade.

"Do you know who John's new love interest is?" he asked curiously.

"Hm? What was that?" the DI asked him distractedly, glancing from the television to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes. "John's love interest! Do you know who they are? What they do for a living? Where their favourite restaurant is?"

Greg now looked back at Sherlock partly sympathetically. "It's not going to change the fact that John loves them, and not you, Sherlock. It'd only make you feel worse. I don't know if I should tell you. Besides, you can't go stalking this person to threaten them!"

The thought hadn't occurred to the detective but he knew that if he did try to find this person and threaten them, they'd most likely tell John about it and then the doctor would just be mad at him. "Oh please, Lestrade… I'm not going to _stalk _this person. I just want to know if it's a man or a woman!"

The DI cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "If you really must know, it's a man, which is perfectly fine with me by the way!"

"I know it's fine," Sherlock smirked a bit. Good, then. That still let Sherlock know that he had a chance with the doctor at least. He wasn't in a battle he had no chance of ever winning. He relaxed a bit. "Have you met him?"

"Yes, I've met the bloke. He's very nice."

Sherlock nodded, thinking about other questions. "Taller than me, or shorter?"

Lestrade cocked his head a bit. "Aren't these questions you could deduce or whatever on your own? You can figure out everyone else's life stories just by their perfume or the way they tie their shoelaces but you can't figure out who John is going out with now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and narrowed his eyes slightly. "This is personal, though. John knows me better than anyone else, well... apart from you, anyhow. He knows how to hide things from me. Now, taller or shorter?"

Lestrade glanced back at the game and tapped his fingers on the armchair. "A bit shorter, perhaps. You don't know him, Sherlock."

"Bollocks, I know everyone in London…"

It was Greg's turn to smirk now and he shook his head. "I guarantee you don't know this man, Sherlock. He's not from London."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Why would John start dating someone who didn't live locally? Unless…. Unless he had a history with this person for a while, maybe even before he moved in with Sherlock. "Where are they going to be tonight?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Uh-uh. No, Sherlock. I'm not bloody telling you where they're going to be just so you can stalk them and upset yourself even more about this whole thing!"

Sherlock sighed in frustration and chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "I have better things to do than confront this new man. If he makes John happen, what business do I have to ruin their relationship? I only want to see who he is and if my friend is happy."

Greg gave him a suspicious look but Sherlock saw the pity in the DI's eyes was greater than the determination of his own will. He sighed reluctantly. "I'll take you to the restaurant this evening but you need to promise me you won't ruin their dinner, Sherlock. I mean it."

His eyes lit up now and he nodded once in agreement. Sherlock was finally going to meet John's love, the person who had essentially taken his rightful place besides the doctor; the person that John had chosen over himself. He felt the excitement filling up inside of him but tried to remain calm, considering the circumstances. He went back to fiddling with his phone, thinking that dinner couldn't come soon enough. He dialed the phone number for the restaurant, making reservations for two before he hung up again and seeing a dismayed look upon Greg's face.

"What is it?"

"Sherlock! They're going to think we're a bloody couple now!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I thought you said there was nothing wrong with that…"

"Well not as far as we're concerned! There's no problem with _that _but I prefer to not have my wife found out I had dinner with a bloke tonight!"

The consulting detective shook his head, scoffing. "Oh stop, Lestrade! Men do have dinners with other men if they're co-workers. That's all anyone will think, not anything more. Try and not have a heart attack, for both our sakes. Just tell your wife you're meeting someone to talk shop from work."

"At a fancy restaurant?"

Sherlock shrugged now. "Fine, then tell her that you have a massive wide-on for men suddenly. I don't care what you tell her, Lestrade! Just tell her so you'll come with me. I've already made the reservations."

Greg let out a huff of air before he looked back at the game. The two men became silent before Greg suddenly stood up, shutting the game off before he grabbed his coat.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

"Well, I have to go back to my place to shower and get ready, don't I?" he asked rhetorically. "I'll meet you at restaurant. I need to talk to my wife anyway about tonight."

"Why can't you just come back here and we can take a cab together?"

Lestrade made his way towards the door. "Oh yeah, because then people can really talk then, can't they? I'm meeting you there! End of discussion, Sherlock," he declared before he left the flat, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock was hardly fazed by Lestrade's impatience. He was finally getting the chance to see John's boyfriend, and maybe if he was lucky enough, the chance to break the two of them up. He quickly jumped into the shower to get ready.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock felt butterflies in his stomach as he hailed a cab and told it to go to the restaurant Lestrade had told him John was going to be. He straightened his tux and smoothed out the creases with his hands, giving himself something to do.

He soon arrived outside the restaurant and then paid the driver before he headed inside. No sooner had he walked in, he saw the hostess walking towards him.

"Can I help you find a table, sir?"

He smiled charmingly. "Holmes, party of two. I called earlier."

"Oh yes, please follow me. Your friend already arrived just a few minutes earlier."

He followed the hostess over to a table where Lestrade had already started drinking a glass of white wine and sat down, nodding politely to her before he looked at the DI.

"You've been here for about ten minutes and you've already almost finished your first glass of wine. You must be nervous indeed," Sherlock observed, glancing around the restaurant for any sign of John and his boyfriend.

"I'm only nervous for your sake. Don't be causing a scene either, Sherlock," Greg warned him. "If you start a row in front of everyone, I'll take you back home and that'll be the end of that!"

Sherlock smirked slightly, unable to stop thinking how Lestrade could be a great father. He ordered his own glass of wine to help with his nervousness. He took a deep breath to relax himself, anxiously waiting for the couple to arrive. After about ten minutes and a glass of wine, he looked at Greg.

"I thought you told me they were coming to this place?"

"They are! John told me it was this restaurant. They probably just had later dinner reservations than us."

Just as Greg had finished remarking, Sherlock saw a dressed up John and another man walk inside before being led to a table across the room but still in their line of sight. He nearly gasped before he tried to get a good look of the new man in his friend's life.

"I was half expecting it to be Moriarty," he confessed to Greg, who seemed to preoccupied in pouring himself a second glass.

"Moriarty? Why him? He's a psychopath and a criminal…"

"Exactly, John has the habit of being attracted to those types of people. This man looks so… average. Are you sure this is his new boyfriend, Lestrade?" he asked in confirmation.

"Of course it's his boyfriend, Sherlock! Do you honestly believe that every person John goes out with is going to be just like you?"

Sherlock felt like his heart was being squeezed too tightly by his ribcage. This man indeed was about an inch or two shorter than himself but had the same bone structure. He was more muscular, however, and seemed to have a permanent smile plastered on his face. He unconsciously gritted his teeth together in a jealousy that ran deep within him. What did this man have that Sherlock didn't? Why wasn't he good enough for John?

Greg looked over at Sherlock uneasily before he gently hit the detective's shoulder with his hand. "Stop staring. They're going to see you."

"Good," Sherlock growled. "I want them to…"

"Well I bloody don't! I thought we came here to eat and talk, not spy on John the entire time!" Greg exclaimed in disbelief.

"Correct, you did. I came to spy… I think I might just pop over there and introduce myself to this new fellow," Sherlock started, about to stand up.

Greg grabbed his arm and quickly forced him back down. "Sherlock, I'm warning you… you make a scene and – "

Sherlock stood back up. "Yes, yes… I know, and we're going home. I'll be right back, Lestrade. Just go ahead and order without me," he gently patted Greg's shoulder before he started to stride over to the table where John and his boyfriend were sitting.

"John! Fancy seeing you here!" Sherlock put on an act, forcing himself to chuckle. He turned to look at the man who looked anything but pleased. "Who's your friend, John?"

John looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him up whole. His face went slightly red. "Err… this is… my boyfriend, Sherlock," he clenched his teeth. "Adrian, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

"Adrian! It's a pleasure," Sherlock lied, sticking his hand out.

The man nodded in an awkward agreement and gently shook Sherlock's hand. As the men shook hands, Sherlock tried to get a feel for him.

_**Nervous**_

_Businessman_

_**Office Worker**_

_Dog lover_

_**Alcoholic**_

_Bad-Tempered_

_**Serial Adulterer**_

_Liar_

Sherlock felt the lump in his throat grow as he let go of his hand, wishing he had never met this man. He felt anxious just being around him now. He cleared his throat and looked at John. "I… I apologize for interrupting but would you mind having a word with me privately, John?"

The doctor's eyes seemed to be screaming at Sherlock to just go away before he punched him but he couldn't just leave without warning John about the type of person this man really was. "Actually, Sherlock. Yes, I would mind, I would mind a lot."

"John…" Sherlock urged.

Adrian cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. "It's fine. I need to use the restroom anyway. It'll give you two time to talk."

John looked like he was about to protest but he let Adrian pass them before he nearly glared at Sherlock. "What do you think you're doing, Sherlock? How did you even know I was going to be here?"

"That's not important, John! Do you know the type of person Adrian really is?" Sherlock hissed urgently.

"He's not you, so that's a plus…"

"_John. _This man is not a good person at all. You're better than this! You don't need to settle for him when there are other people out there!" he encouraged.

John chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head before he pointed his finger at him. "You're just doing this because you're still mad I didn't choose you! That's all this is. Jealousy… I know you have a giant ego but you're wrong this time, Sherlock! I love him, and we're not breaking up just because you can't stand seeing us together. Now, if you don't mind, please kindly disappear."

Sherlock wanted to pull his hair out in frustration at John's denial. He shook his head. "No, John. You must listen to me! This isn't going to end well!"

"It's not going to end at all," John growled at him. "The only thing that is going to end is this conversation. Now, please… leave us, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart wasn't as broken by John's words as it had been the first time he had told Sherlock about his new boyfriend. No, now all he was worried about was how this man was going to treat John. He didn't even care about his own self, not this time. "John, please. Listen to me! You need to be careful. I might've been a sociopath but Adrian borders on a psychopath. He has all the characteristics of being dangerous."

"Bollocks! I can't believe you're telling me this. You can't tell me he's a psychopath just based on a handshake and how he appears in your odd little ways. I'm sorry it ended poorly between us but you have no right to end my new relationships," John replied, eyeing him.

Sherlock saw Adrian coming back from the men's room now and he forced himself to stand up tall. At the very least, he wanted to appear intimidating, regardless of the fact this man had about thirty pounds more in pure muscle on Sherlock.

When he walked over, Adrian cast a wary eye in Sherlock's direction. "Everything all right here, then?"

"Yes, Adrian," John cut in before Sherlock could say anything. "Everything's fine. Sherlock was just leaving. Weren't you?"

The detective felt his hands shaking at his side, feeling protective to the extreme. If this man was an alcoholic and bad-tempered on top of it, he knew that this was going to end horribly. He glanced at John before looking back at Adrian. "Yes, I was, actually. John, do call the next time you're around Baker Street. We should be getting a case fairly soon."

John nodded as nonchalantly as he could without looking suspicious. "It was lovely to see you, Sherlock."

He gave a warning glance at Adrian before he finally forced himself to walk back to the table where Greg was, watching him cautiously. Sherlock took a deep breath, doing everything he could to not go back and punch Adrian out cold. When he reached the table, he closed his eyes, trying not to let his anger boil over.

"You okay, Sherlock?"

"Yes, but I believe it's time for us to go now. We can get takeout on the way back to Baker Street," Sherlock shelled out several large bills onto the table before he headed out the way they had come and waited for Greg out front.

"What was that all about? What happened?"

Sherlock raised his hand for a cab, not turning to look at the DI. "I saw personality traits that were highly unpleasing." He climbed inside the cab and waited for Greg to do the same.

"What? Like what personality traits?"

Sherlock finally looked at Lestrade. "This man John is seeing, Adrian, he's an adulterer with a history of violence and alcohol abuse. These are traits that are a recipe for disaster. John's in trouble, Lestrade. We need to do something before things get out of hand."

Lestrade, who looked plenty tipsy and not altogether professional, looked at Sherlock with a confused expression. "Do something? Like what? He hasn't even done anything to John yet."

"Yet being the operative word here. John's in danger. Adrian's only using John for his salary and his pushover personality. He knows he can get away with anything he wants with John because he wouldn't dare mess with someone who is bigger than himself."

"He tells you off all the time!"

Sherlock shook his head as he looked out the window. "That's different; I barely weigh 175 and he knows I'd never physically attack him. This man is 215, at least and built like a lifter. The question is why would John choose someone he would usually find intimidating? Go."

Greg looked speechless at first but Sherlock chalked it up to the alcohol. Finally, Lestrade understand what the detective was aiming to do; he was shooting ideas off of Greg so he could deduce things about John. "Err… I don't know. Maybe… he wants to feel safe?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He doesn't need someone else to feel safe. He has military training. John's a soldier. He knows how to defend himself in case of an attack."

"Well, there it is, then. He's not in danger. He can protect himself in the case this bloke decides to try and hurt him," Greg tried to make sense of his colleague's thinking.

It was possible that John could defend himself against Adrian. He'd been trained by the British Army. "Maybe not, but what if he does hurt John?"

Greg tried to rattle his alcohol-infused brain but he was becoming impatient. "Then we can throw John's boyfriend in the jail for domestic assault. We can build a case against him. Just… calm yourself, Sherlock. Things will be all right. You don't know for sure that Adrian will hurt John, and if it happens, then Scotland Yard will help him lock the guy up. It isn't your problem, mate."

Sherlock was quiet as the cab stopped in front of 221B and got out with Greg, heading upstairs. "John is my problem, though." It didn't matter that they weren't together anymore. It didn't matter as much that Sherlock couldn't get the thing he wanted the most in his entire life. What was important to Sherlock Holmes now was making sure John was safe from this abusive person that had the ability to make his friend's life a living hell.

He needed to protect John, at all costs. He was still heartbroken but now he could channel that pain into something more productive. Once he arrived in the flat, he looked over at Greg with solemn eyes. "Take the couch tonight."

"You want me to stay?" Greg raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Sherlock nodded slowly in thought. "It's still better than being alone. Besides, if something happens, I'll know the two places to find you; Scotland Yard and here."

Greg obviously saw the sense in this and understood where he was going with this because he ceased his questions and let himself collapse on the couch after placing his phone on the coffee table. "Night then, Sherlock."

He softly rapped his fingers on the doorway to his bedroom. "Goodnight, Lestrade." He disappeared inside his room and then closed it before he sat on his bed and sighed heavily, resting his face in his hands in his helplessness.


	6. I'll Protect You

A/N: I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to put up. I've been ill and life won't let me relax. Thank you all for following my story!

**Ayno23 – I'm so glad you like the songs! I love them; I think they reflect Johnlock pretty well in this story :-) You're the best for reviewing! **

And please keep the reviews coming! They encourage me so much.

* * *

Chapter Six: I'll Protect You

.o.o.

.o.

_Love ain't fair_

_So there you are_

_My love_

_Your heart's a mess_

_You won't admit to it_

_It makes no sense_

_But I'm desperate to connect_

_And you, you can't live like this_

_Your heart's a mess_

_You won't admit to it_

_It makes no sense_

_But I'm desperate to connect_

_And you can't live like this_

_Goyte – Heart's A Mess_

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock barely slept all night, his only thought on John's new boyfriend Adrian who seemed far from relationship material. He had barely talked to him and the detective already knew that this man was trouble that he didn't need. He fiddled with his phone and occasionally listened to Lestrade snore peacefully outside his door. At least one of them was able to get some rest during the night.

He watched as the English rain poured steadily outside his window and thought how he should go about this. John wouldn't believe Sherlock if he told him his deductions he had made of Adrian, and he might even be mad at the detective. However, at least he'd be aware of the kind of person his partner might potentially be. That would be worth losing his friendship with John if he made the doctor at least conscious of the risks he was taking. He didn't think he could talk to his friend face-to-face about this matter, though.

Sherlock caressed the outside skin of his phone before he finally speed-dialed the doctor.

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

"Hello?"

"Err…" Sherlock hesitated. It wasn't John's voice but more importantly, it wasn't John. He cleared his throat. "Adrian… could you possibly be bothered to put John on the phone? It's rather important."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It would appear that John's not available to come to his mobile right now. I'll gladly let him know that you called though," Adrian replied coolly in a tone that left Sherlock highly unsettled.

It was a snide tone that let the consulting detective know that Adrian was going to do nothing of the sort; he wouldn't tell John about Sherlock calling at all. He clenched his jaw and then couldn't resist the next words that came out of his mouth. "Adrian, I know what you are. I've seen so many vile creatures like you and all of them have managed to turn my stomach. If you so much as harm a hair on his head, I promise you the next place you'll end up living will be a very cold cemetery."

Adrian snickered on the other line. "I'm sorry, Sherlock… are you… _threatening_ me? Do you realize that I could have call the police and have you thrown in jail for conspiracy to commit a violent act against another person? That's quite a serious offense."

"I'm not too worried about that. I know the people of Scotland Yard personally and I doubt your word will hold any water against my own. You see, Adrian, I can tell when people are dangerous. I have a magnificent gift of seeing how people truly are and Scotland Yard has seen my deductions come to live before their very eyes so I promise they'll side with me and won't believe a single word you tell them," Sherlock threatened calmly although his heart was hammering hard against his ribcage.

"You can try to intimidate me all you want but I know that your friendship with John means more than all the threats in the world. You wouldn't want me to tell him that you called here and threatened to bury me, would you?" he asked rhetorically before letting out a low, sick laugh. "Now here's how this is going to work: you never called here, Sherlock. And you'll never call here again or else I really will hurt him. In all honesty I was planning on it anyway but it'll just be that much sooner that I do. Boy oh boy, Sherlock Holmes… you really have me figured out, don't you? I'm warning you. _Don't call him again_. He's mine now and the sooner you realize that, the better."

He heard Adrian hang up John's phone and he growled in frustration, fighting the urge to throw his phone across the room. Sherlock stood up and then walked out of his room before he gently shook the sleeping DI that was laying on the couch.

"Mmm…?"

"Wake up, Lestrade. I just called him…" Sherlock walked into the kitchen and started to make a pot of coffee.

"Mm… called who? Who did you call?" Lestrade asked, almost in alarm as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Called Adrian… well, I meant to call John but Adrian picked up instead," he explained as he made his way back towards the detective.

Lestrade blinked a few times, trying to process this. "What did he say?"

"Almost exactly what I expected an abuser to say to John's best friend, for me to leave him alone and not call John's mobile again. You need to go over there and make sure that he's okay, Lestrade. Make sure John's all right…"

The DI groaned and ran a tired hand through his tussled hair. "I can't just go over there, Sherlock! That's not how it works."

Sherlock started to pace back and forth, frustrated that he couldn't do anything about this until an idea hit him. "Fine then, I'll go over there and make sure he's okay."

"What?" Lestrade stood up now. "No, you bloody well won't, Sherlock! You need to stay here. I'm sure John's just fine…"

"Aaargh!" Sherlock yelled out in Lestrade's direction. "You don't know that! He could be covered in bruises for all you know! What good are you if you won't even do your job?"

Lestrade sighed and moved over towards Sherlock. "John's a soldier! He's practiced in combat and defence. I'm sure he can handle himself, Sherlock. Now please, just… sit down and try to relax, will you?"

The detective finally did as he was told and sat down in the chair opposite of what used to be John's but tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair nervously. He watched as Lestrade went into the kitchen and then came back with two cups of coffee, handing one off to Sherlock before he sat down in John's chair.

Sherlock felt an emptiness and he chewed on his bottom lip, needing to do something productive. He grabbed his violin from the side of the chair and placed it on his lap before he started to strum it slowly, watching the steam from his coffee cup float upwards.

"He met this man in the military in Afghanistan, Lestrade. They're both trained in combat. They both know how to break bones…" Sherlock trailed off and then closed his eyes, refusing to let himself think that way.

No, he couldn't think about Adrian even touching John in a way that was inappropriate and harmful. It hurt Sherlock too much. He didn't understand why John chose this kinds of people, people who had the capacity to seriously hurt him physically and mentally. He knew that this didn't exclude him but at least Sherlock knew for certain he would hurt John in a way that wasn't loving.

"John can protect himself, you know. He's not as helpless as you seem to think he is. You don't always need to be the person to come to his rescue…"

Sherlock continued to strum the cords with his long, dexterous fingers. "I know he doesn't, but I can still feel the need to protect him, can't I? Or is that against the law now as well?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and gave his friend a helpless look before he sipped his coffee. "I know you'd like me to but I can't just burst into this man's flat and arrest him on suspicions and hearsay."

Sherlock gave a disgusted look. "Suspicions and hearsay? Please, Lestrade. You know me better than that. You know my deductions based on a person's appearance has never been wrong. Something terrible is going to happen, just wait… you'll see."

"Yeah? Well I hope this time, that you are wrong, Sherlock. You're just looking for any reason to go after Adrian and it's going to get you into trouble. Do you hear me?"

"Yes… of course. I _always _hear you…" Sherlock sighed as he finally set his violin down and then took a sip of now lukewarm coffee.

Sherlock heard the ringing of Lestrade's phone at that moment and looked at him curiously.

"Yeah, I'll be right there! Keep everyone away from the murder site," Lestrade ordered into the phone before he hung up and looked at Sherlock. "Murder case. I've gotta run."

Sherlock stood up excitedly, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins. "Murder! Excellent! I'll come too…"

Lestrade placed a solid hand on the younger man's chest and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. We don't need you for this one. It's pretty straightforward but if you want me to, I'll come back here afterwards."

Sherlock pouted grimly and sighed. "No, don't even bother. Just… go home if you like. I'll be fine here by myself."

Lestrade shot him a doubtful look. "Are you sure? Do you promise me you'll eat?"

"Yes, yes… I promise. Now go! God knows Scotland Yard's incompetents can't do anything without you there," Sherlock encouraged, trying to hide his feelings with a snide ridicule.

The DI cast a mostly concerned look in Sherlock's direction now. "All right, I'll go but if you need me for anything, you have my number."

Sherlock nodded and then waved Lestrade off before he sat back down in the chair and leaned forward, ruffling his dark curls. He waited several seconds until he was sure that his fellow colleague was gone before he looked back at his phone and traced his fingers over John's name in the contacts, wishing he could somehow talk to him through the glass screen.

He sipped more of his coffee until he couldn't stand not doing anything anymore. He had to go see John, at least just make sure he was all right. Sherlock quickly got dressed and then hurried downstairs before running outside, hailing a cab. He took out his phone once he got in the back of the cab and started to speed search through semi-recent veteran British persons.

He saw John Watson's name and scanned past it until he soon came to three others whose first name was Adrian.

He bit his lip in thought and then went for his gut instinct before he leaned forward to tell the cabbie his destination. "Ganton Street, if you please," he directed before he leaned back. Sherlock knew London roads by heart and he also knew that most of the bars were located in and around Ganton Street. Adrian had to live around there.

He became more and more anxious with each passing second, thinking about John, hoping he was okay. Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie once they arrived there and stepped out, walking towards the closest flat within the proximity to the nearby pubs. He looked around, only seeing one large flat. That had to be it.

He hurried towards it and then looked at the names on the buzzers. He didn't recognize any of the names at first until he came to a familiar name.

_Watson._

_Watson/Brennon _

Adrian Brennon, that had to be his name. He felt his heart sink when he saw John's name right beside the man he loathed, the man who had stolen the doctor from him. He didn't want to buzz it, knowing that Adrian wouldn't let him come up for anything. Sherlock took a cigarette out and lit it, buying his time.

Probability told him that there were at least two or three people out of the building at any given moment so at least one of them was bound to come back soon. He took several drags off his cigarette when he saw an older man smile politely at him as he opened the door, and then held it open as he looked back at Sherlock.

"You coming in? It's raining like hell out here!"

Sherlock smiled and threw his cigarette onto the ground before he nodded and took the open door. "Yes, thank you… thank you very much. I left my key upstairs…"

"No problem whatsoever, sir. Glad I could be of some service. Cheers…"

"Cheers," Sherlock nodded towards him. Naïve older men were a major part of that balance of probability.

He took the stairs up to the floor where John and Adrian were and then knocked on the door. He waited, hearing footsteps, his heart caught in his throat.

"Sherlock? What… what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

The consulting detective was grateful to see a seemingly unharmed John Watson standing in front of him with what looked like confusion but also a certain relief in his eyes. "I… I called earlier but you weren't home and… I just needed to talk to you about something. Do you have a couple minutes?"

John furrowed his eyebrows and then looked inside before he suddenly looked apprehensively back at Sherlock. "Uhh… actually, you know what? Now isn't the best time, Sherlock. Why don't we meet up this weekend or – "

Sherlock shook his head determinedly, pursing his lips. "No, John… I'm sorry but this has to be right now… it's important."

John opened his mouth to say something else when Sherlock saw Adrian stroll out. "John, I was wondering who you were talking to out here," he smirked. "Sherlock, what ever brings you here? How did you know I lived around here? Did John tell you?"

He shook his head, swallowing back his own fear that was building up inside of him. Adrian's dark olive green eyes somehow made him look even more dangerous than he was already. Sherlock noticed John was looking uneasy, casting his eyes downward towards the floor.

"No, he didn't. I knew you were an alcoholic and you people do have an interestingly boring pattern of movements. It makes sense you would have a flat near at least five different pubs, all within walking distance. Clever, really. You wouldn't ever need to drink and drink. It'd be a shame if you hurt more people than you needed to," Sherlock spoke coldly.

Adrian chuckled and shrugged. "I suppose you're right, Sherlock. What can we help you with?"

"I'm afraid you can't help me at all, Adrian," Sherlock answered. "I just need to talk to John for a few minutes."

Adrian locked his fingers in John's and from the small wince his friend gave, Adrian had pulled him away from Sherlock with a rough tug. "Well that's bad timing. We were just about to go out for some breakfast. Would you like to come along with us?"

Sherlock glanced at John who remained quiet and solemn, qualities that Sherlock knew better were unlike John Watson. Usually his friend was enthusiastic and upbeat, so he knew that something wasn't right between them. He looked into Adrian's cold eyes. "I'm surprised you even let him eat at all. It's obvious you have such amazing control over John."

"It's just about showing dominance, Sherlock. It's a shame your parents never taught you where your place really was. I don't need to control John at all. He knows where his place is and his place is by my side," Adrian sneered at Sherlock.

He looked back at John who looked as if he was trying to keep his composure but Sherlock knew better. It pained him to see his friend look so timid and fearful. This wasn't the John he knew. "I'd love to come along with you to breakfast."

Sherlock fingered the phone that was in his trench coat pocket, having an idea. "Why don't you go grab John's coat and an umbrella for yourself? It's raining buckets outside at the moment."

Adrian nodded suspiciously before he went back inside the flat, leaving Sherlock alone with John finally. He leaned in and tried to get the doctor's eye, a task he found difficult. "John," he whispered. "Listen to me. I know what he's doing to you and you don't need to let him."

"He's not doing anything to me, Sherlock. You're overreacting," John replied in a cold, rehearsed tone Sherlock recognized of abuse victims.

He was about to counter John's denial when Adrian came back out. The three of them walked towards the café that stood in the center of the books near the flat building. Once the three of them had grabbed some type of breakfast meal and sat down at a table, Sherlock noticed that Adrian had made John sit on the same side of the table as himself.

Sherlock reached down into his coat pocket and turned on the voice recorder on his phone. He stared into Adrian's eyes, despising this man for putting on a show and forcing John to go along with it. He needed to prove that John was being abused by this prick, one way or another. He needed to protect his friend. "You two moved in together pretty fast. Too fast, I would say."

Adrian tongued his cheek and chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, John had to move in somewhere after you kicked him out. I was just generous enough to offer that he stay at mine, and he agreed."

"You mean you forced him into your flat. That's what controlling people do to their victims to gain more control and power over them, isn't it?"

"He wanted to move in with me. He's been seeing me for over a year and after our time together overseas, we had a pretty strong connection," Adrian winked at Sherlock. "You know what I think it is, Sherlock? I think you're jealous, that I got to him first before you did."

Sherlock scoffed, feeling sick being around this man. "Please… you don't know John like I know him. You'll _never _know him like I know him."

Adrian smiled and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. It's _you_ who will never know him like I know him. I can say that I truly know him inside… and out."

Sherlock felt a wave of nausea fall over him now as he got Adrian's real meaning. His anger started to bubble to the surface but he had to keep telling himself that he was getting evidence of Adrian's abusive side all on his voice recorder. This was the only thing keeping him from jumping across the table and killing him.

"You're a real bastard, Adrian Brennon. I'm not surprised you were discharged without honor. You're a disgrace. You don't deserve John Watson in your life. He's too good for you…"

Sherlock's words didn't seem to have any effect on Adrian as he finished up his pastry. "Oh, and you do? You honestly believe you deserve him more than I do? You think you know everything about me, but… I know a few things about yourself as well. You're forgetting that I have military connections still, even after being discharged. You're a drug addict, Sherlock Holmes. You have a history of morphine addiction. You would sell your own brother just to get some. I might be an alcoholic but… we're more socially acceptable than you. And… I forget again, who is John with? Oh! That's right. He's with me."

Sherlock could feel his hands shaking under the table, not having touched his croissant that was still sitting on the napkin. He looked towards John who had a defeated look in his eyes. He wanted his friend back, more than anything. "Why aren't you fighting back, John? Are you scared of this man? Are you scared of Adrian Brennon?"

He knew that John was but he wanted it on record. John didn't say anything but sighed as he sat upright again and picked at his coffee cake.

Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. "Say something, John! Say it! Just bloody say that you're afraid of him! I know it's true. I can see it in your eyes!"

Adrian was looking a bit nervous now as several people in the café were looking in their direction. He pushed John roughly out of the booth but not so rough as to actually knock him out onto the floor. "Come on, John. We're leaving now…"

Sherlock stood up and looked almost eye level with this ex-soldier. He clenched his jaw in place firmly, searching Adrian's cold, dead eyes. "You admit you hurt him earlier. You… you r-raped him, didn't you?"

Adrian's eyes casted downwards and Sherlock felt his heart sink into the depths of his stomach when he knew he had found Sherlock's phone recording the conversation. "Why would I ever do that? I love John, and he loves me. You better stay out of our relationship, Sherlock."

"Is that a threat?"

Adrian smirked. "It's a… friendly suggestion, is all. Have a lovely day, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock watched as Adrian led John out of the café, walking back towards his flat. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He shut off the recording on his phone and then finally started to follow them at a distance. He strayed behind until he saw Adrian making his way towards the front of the flat.

"Vatican cameos!" he suddenly yelled to John.

To his surprise, John barely moved but he still managed to get out of the way just in time before Sherlock took Adrian to the wet ground. He started to punch him hard, over and over. Adrian coughed, spitting up blood from apparently biting his tongue and then shoved Sherlock onto the ground now right before he started doing the same thing to him.

"I said stay away from us! John's not your business anymore!"

Sherlock wheezed and coughed, tasting the metallic taste in his own mouth. He put his arms out to block Adrian's punches until he couch catch his breath again. The detective kicked Adrian in his stomach and rolled away out of the line of fire before getting his feet and then managing another swift punch to Adrian's nose and then a front kick to his stomach.

Sherlock spit out a clot of blood away from him before he looked at Adrian, panting. "L-Looks like that military training didn't g-get you very far…"

John was now looking frantic, his hands behind his head looking panicked. He looked over at Sherlock. "W-What did you do?"

Sherlock knew that he wasn't trying to defend Adrian but he was more trying to look out for Sherlock, knowing that someone would've heard the commotion and called the police. He rubbed his jaw painfully before he grabbed Adrian and pinned him against the building. "Stay there… I know that Lestrade will love to lock you up."

"You're forgetting that you'll be in just as much trouble, Sherlock Holmes," Adrian laughed as the rain poured down on all three of them.

Sherlock shook his head and felt a sick satisfaction as Greg Lestrade pulled up to them, looking disappointedly at him.

"What's all this about then, Sherlock? I should've known this was you…"

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "H-Here… I have it all on here and I have physical evidence of Adrian Brennon's violence!"

Lestrade looked at him warily before he walked back to his car and listened to the voice recording on Sherlock's phone. He sighed heavily before he walked back over to Sherlock, looking from him to Adrian and then over to John, who appeared unscathed.

"He never actually admits to hurting John on there, Sherlock. There's very little to go on. As far anyone else could tell by listening to that, this guy's just another prick. I'm sorry, Sherlock… I know that's not what you wanted to hear."

Sherlock pocketed the phone and watched in despair as Lestrade just gave Adrian a warning not to cause any more trouble again and then started back to his car. The detective followed him after Adrian ushered John back inside the flat.

"I bet you make Scotland Yard proud, don't you, Lestrade?" he asked icily, feeling disgusted with everything right now.

"Go back to Baker Street, Sherlock…"

"Oh yes, you would love that, wouldn't you? You're utterly fucking useless, you know that?! What the hell good are you if you won't even help me?" Sherlock yelled at him, on the brink of tears as the rain matted his hair to his face. "I gave you evidence and you claim it's nothing! You let him go!"

Lestrade looked up from his paperwork he was filling out as he sat in his car. "There wasn't any evidence! No cuts, no bruises, nothing! Except on you! What were you even doing here? You're lucky he's not putting a restraining order on you, Sherlock! What you did could be considered stalking, and the hitting him like that! Assault and battery…."

Sherlock looked at the DI in disbelief, his tears finally falling from exhaustion and frustration. "H-He's… he's f-fucking hurting him, Lestrade! He… he r-raped him… I know he did… he practically told me earlier. T-The look on his face…"

Lestrade sighed but looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "You know I believe you, Sherlock. You've never given me a wrong lead once, but unfortunately, we can't do anything with just 'looks on faces.' We need hard evidence. I know you're frustrated as hell right now but there's nothing we can do unless we either catch it in the act or…" Lestrade trailed off, not wanting to give the more unsavoury answer.

Sherlock knew it, though. He always knew. "No…" he shook his head. "I'm not letting this bastard kill my only friend, Lestrade. I won't let it get that far."

"What are you planning on doing, Sherlock?"

The young man looked up at the darkened sky, as if searching for answers before he looked back at Lestrade. "Whatever I have to."

Greg shook his head. "Don't do anything you're going to regret, or rather don't do anything John would regret. Are you honestly planning on murdering John's live-in boyfriend, Sherlock? Do you think that'll make him fall madly in love with you? It won't!" `

Sherlock took a deep breath before he exhaled deeply, wishing he could go back to the day when John had told him he loved someone else. If he had the chance, Sherlock would make him see his true potential and that they knew each other better than anyone else did. He would somehow change John's mind, but that was all 'shoulda, coulda, wouldas' that would never see the light.

He didn't know what to do now. The only way he could protect John would be to hurt him. He somehow needed to get Lestrade on his side for this plan of action, though… or at least make it look like it was self-defence. At least that might hurt John a little bit less.

Sherlock hated feeling this helpless but if he could save John from ending up like so many past abuse victims in London, then maybe the risks would be worth it. Maybe.


	7. How It Should Be

A/N: **Ayno23** – I hope you didn't mean my chapter was horrible in the sense that it sucked horribly, lol. I'm sorry my chapters are so depressing. I promise it'll have a good ending!

Thank you for reviewing again!

* * *

Chapter Seven: How It Should Be

.o.o.

.o.

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry_

_You don't know how lovely you are_

_I had to find you, tell you I need you_

_Tell you I'll set you apart_

Coldplay – The Scientist

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock finished showering the grime and blood from his body before he stepped out and started to dry himself off before getting dressed again. He needed to come up with a way to stop this man from hurting the only man he had ever had the privilege to call a friend. He needed to help him before things got too far.

Hell, it had already gotten too far for Sherlock's liking but there was still time to save John. He walked into his living room and lay on his back on the couch before he closed his eyes and placed his hands together in a praying formation as he tried to come up with ideas. He was quiet for nearly two hours when he heard the front door open and saw Lestrade come in, hanging his jacket on the coat tree.

"Did you try looking into Adrian Brennon's file? Maybe see if he has any past violations?" Sherlock suggested, still not opening his eyes.

Lestrade sighed heavily before he wandered over to the armchair in front of the coffee table and fell into it, exhausted. "No, I haven't. We can't go digging into someone's personal records just because you assume they're up to something."

"He's not just _up to something_, Lestrade," the consulting detective growled. "He's hurting John! He's hurting our mutual friend. I can't prove it but I know for a fact that he is."

Lestrade just stared at Sherlock. "I understand how frustrating this is for you –"

He now opened his eyes and then bolted upright before he turned to face the DI. "_Do _you? Do you really, because somehow, I believe if you actually understood my frustration, you might do something useful and help me get Adrian Brennon arrested!"

Sherlock knew Greg Lestrade didn't deserve to be yelled at like this but he couldn't stop himself. If Lestrade wasn't going to do anything about the situation, he was going to go back out there himself and stop this. He rubbed his temples before he ran his fingers through his curls, ruffling his hair.

"Until the guy actually does something under our noses, we can't touch him, Sherlock. You know that!"

Sherlock shook his head before he stood up and started to put his coat back on. "Fine, then. I'll take care of this myself."

Lestrade stood up and crossed his arms in front of him. "You bloody better not, Sherlock! If you hurt this bastard, I can't get you out of trouble. Do the right thing and sit back down!"

He tied his scarf before he glanced back at Lestrade again. "I am doing the right thing. I'm sorry, Lestrade but I can't just stay here while my only friend is being hurt."

Sherlock left quickly, slamming the door behind him before descending the stairs. He hailed a cab and headed back towards the flat John was sharing with Adrian again. He knew the best thing for everyone would've been for him to stay away, but he still cared for, and even loved John still. There was no way Sherlock was going to give up on him now.

When the cab stopped, Sherlock nearly jumped out before he pressed the button for the proper flat, not having the patience to scam another elderly man in sneaking inside the building.

"Who is it?" Adrian's voice asked through the telecom.

"It's me, Sherlock Holmes. Let me come up!"

"Are you out of your goddamn mind? Go home! John doesn't want to see you and neither do I!"

Sherlock sighed and pressed the buzzer again, holding it irritatingly. Just then, he heard John's voice interrupt his buzzing.

"Come on up, Sherlock!" he yelled between the annoying buzzing right before he buzzed him up.

Sherlock heard yelling at that point and wasted no time in running up the stairs towards Adrian and John's flat, his heart hammering hard in his chest. When he reached his destination, he heard screaming back and forth from inside the flat. He opened the door quickly and saw a dishevelled John shoving Adrian back. He looked him up and down before noticing quickly his lip was split and bleeding but Adrian also looked in rough shape himself.

He moved forward and stood in front of John protectively, glaring darkly at the other man. "Touch him again and I swear I'll be handing you back broken limbs," he threatened, jaw clenched.

John was panting but he placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I appreciate the sentiment but I can defend myself…"

"I'm well aware you can but the fact that you buzzed me in just now tells me you wanted some extra help because you were scared of what he was capable of," he spoke matter-of-factly, never taking his eyes off of Adrian.

John didn't try to deny it but he was looking conflicted. Both the men he loved were in this room together and he had never felt more confused about his feelings. Sherlock could've just as easily walked away after John buzzed him in but his friend knew that John was feeling weak in this moment and needed some backup, just like the old days.

"You actually think he appreciates you being here? He chose me over you, Sherlock Holmes. I would've thought that was evidence enough about how little you mean to him," Adrian sneered before he chuckled indignantly.

His words hit Sherlock hard in his chest but he tried to push his hurt down. He could feel John's warm breath on his neck and it was all he could do not to pull him into an embrace right then and there. He took a deep breath of his own and swallowed hard. "It looks to me like he no longer want to be here with you. If you've been hurting him like I know you have, then it's evident you're just trying to get power and control over something else because you don't have either of these things in your life at the moment. Why don't you just let me take him back to my flat? You don't love him, I can see it in your eyes that you don't…"

Adrian looked away and Sherlock could see the fresh hint of tears in his eyes. "I did… I did love him, and he loved me…"

"Right, maybe I did but that was before you…" John froze, afraid to say the words aloud. He ran a hand through his hair and then just shook his head, frustrated he couldn't even speak the truth.

Sherlock felt an ache in his heart as he watched John's reaction. He looked over at Adrian again, able to see that he was being truthful in this moment. "You probably did at one point, Adrian. I don't doubt that John felt the same way for you as well, but it's apparent that things have changed since then… if you loved him still, you wouldn't hurt him like you have."

He had meant for it to come out less aggressive than it had but he couldn't hold back the venom he felt towards this asshole for hurting John so badly. It was all he could do to resist beating him to death right here and now on the rug.

"You have no fucking right to get between the two of us so… just stay the hell out of this!" Adrian yelled at him.

John stepped forward but still stayed close to Sherlock, almost instinctively. "H-He's right, Adrian," he spoke up. "You… you crossed a line and… I can't love you after what you did the other night. That was… that was just… sick and sadistic."

"You know I had no other choice, John…"

Sherlock gritted his teeth before he took another step towards Adrian. "You had a choice, all right. Millions of people go their whole lives without raping another human being! It's not like you didn't have a choice! What you did was illegal, and I have Scotland Yard on my side and on speed dial so I suggest you do the proper thing and turn yourself in, Adrian."

Adrian started to pace, making a whimpering sound as he rubbed his face with his hands in distress. "Damn it… no… no… I didn't want any of this to happen…"

"You can fix this!" Sherlock encouraged. "It's not too late! I'll call Lestrade right now and we can get this all settled!"

Adrian shook his head as he kept muttering to himself. "No… no… mistakes… I… I can't go to jail! Just leave!"

Sherlock wet his lips as he tried to think quickly. He could leave with John but he also didn't want this man to hurt anyone else ever again. If they left, it would give Adrian time to try and leave the country. It had to be progress that John realized the kind of person his boyfriend actually was though; that was something at least.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully before he took a couple steps towards John. "I don't want to leave here without you, John. Please, come with me."

John looked at him with conflicted brown eyes. He looked like he was yearning to take Sherlock's hand and go with him but his body didn't move. "I can't just leave him like this, Sherlock! He's in distress… h-he needs me."

Sherlock swallowed hard before glancing over at Adrian who was still muttering to himself before he looked back at his doctor. He wet his lips for a second as he tried to think about his words before they came out his mouth. "_I _need you, John,"

The doctor looked speechless for so long that Sherlock continued on. "We can take him to hospital. He needs psychological help. You can't do anything for him. He's not physically injured. He needs to be checked out."

John bit his lip hard and sighed heavily. This man had violated him in the worst way possible but he felt a sick sort of sympathy towards Adrian.

_Stockholm Syndrome_.

He didn't believe in self-diagnosing but he knew what this strange feeling of feeling sympathy towards his pseudo-captor was. This wasn't right; this wasn't what a real, healthy relationship felt like. He couldn't keep living this lie.

John looked over at Adrian. "I'm… I'm sorry, Adrian, but he's right. You do need help and you… need to pay for your actions…"

"No! J-John… you need to stay here with me! You can't go with this psychopath!" he suddenly began to yell in a desperate voice.

"I'm not a psychopath," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "I'm a –"

"Sherlock," John warned, knowing what he was about to say, but also knowing that the next words out of his mouth would not be helpful in the situation right now. He looked over to Sherlock before he mouthed two words.

_Call Lestrade. _Sherlock nodded once and then proceeded to stroll into another room of Adrian's flat, speed-dialing the DI.

When he heard Greg pick up, he started to tell him the situation in a low voice. "Bring several of your strongest men over here. He will most likely try to fight, and he's not in his right state of mind. He doesn't appear to be… all there."

"Was this your doing, Sherlock? Did you have anything to do with his mental break?" Lestrade growled.

Sherlock didn't reply; instead he hung up and pocketed his phone before he moved back into the living room where Adrian and John were still. He looked over at Adrian carefully, needing time to keep him here until Scotland Yard came to the flat.

"Adrian, you might not have realized it but what you did to John, how you hurt him, it wasn't right. Normal people don't do that. You know that, right?" he asked him this gently, but inside he was trying to contain the anger he felt towards this man.

Adrian had started to pace and he ran his hands through his hair in distress before he turned to face Sherlock, his face defiant and angry. "Oh! And… y-you'd know a lot about how normal people act, wouldn't you? John told me about you, Mr Holmes! He told me how you act anything but normal!"

Sherlock felt like he had been slapped. He forced down the hurt that had risen up. He didn't dare look over at John, feeling like his face was hot and red. "I admit I have my faults but I never… raped him." It hurt to even say the words but there was no other way to say it.

"I-It wasn't rape. He… he said it was okay. He wanted it!" Adrian insisted.

Sherlock shook his head, his hands shaking from the rage he was feeling. "He was probably too fucking terrified to tell you he didn't want it because he knew what you'd do! Stop acting like you're an innocent party, Adrian. It's not going to work! What you did was wrong. If I was Lestrade and it was up to me, I'd hang you myself."

Adrian suddenly let out a long, sick laugh, any signs of fear or hesitance gone now. He shook his head. "You! You're a piece of work, Sherlock… you really are. You think he wants you? You're nothing! You barely even pass as human! At least I'm more man than you will ever be! I can give him what he wants!"

Sherlock shook his head. "You're insane!" he roared. "You don't love him. You only want to prove your dominance but over taking him, which quite frankly, isn't that difficult of a feat if you're skilled enough! I may only barely pass as human but at least I know what's right and what's wrong and I don't even care if he wants me or not after this! I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let him live here, continuing to be under your thumb and be raped by a bastard like you!"

Adrian smirked sickly and rolled his eyes. "Has anyone ever told you how boring you are? You can claim you're a sociopath all you want but we all know what you really are. John knows you're a psychopath, like me. You're no better than I am! This is what you'll turn into, Sherlock, so take a good long hard look because _this _is what you're going to become!"

Sherlock didn't know what snapped in him but his rage was unleashed and he threw himself at Adrian, punching him hard and breaking his nose before he punched his mouth. He knew this didn't help his case in proving he wasn't a psychopath but he had hurt Adrian before he could stop himself. He panted, breathing hard as he stared at a now bloody Adrian. "I… w-will never be what you are!"

"What the hell is going on here?"

Sherlock looked over and saw Lestrade enter the flat, heading towards Adrian with handcuffs but he was asking the question to Sherlock who had blood on his knuckles. He looked back at him speechless and then swallowed hard.

"He was protecting me, Greg," John explained quickly and plainly.

Greg raised an eyebrow but just proceeded to cuff Adrian, who let him, and then told Donovan to take him downstairs and into the car. Once she had left with him, Lestrade moved closer to Sherlock and John, looking between the two of them.

"Alright, one of you tell me what happened here before I slap cuffs on Sherlock as well."

John cleared his throat and looked at Greg Lestrade. "If you're going to arrest him, you might as well arrest me too. He was defending me. Adrian… he… he hurt me and it was a good thing Sherlock came up here. He protected me."

The exhausted DI looked at him with skeptical eyes but just groaned before he nodded. "I'll come back to Baker Street later on this week to ask you for a full report. Until then, you two try and keep a low profile."

John nodded and then looked at Sherlock who was nursing his cut hand distractedly. Lestrade disappeared out of the room and headed back to his car. Once they were alone in the room again, Sherlock looked up from his hand to look at John.

"So… erm… home then?"

John nodded once. "Yes, home. Let me just… pack my things back up and we can go. Do you… err… want to help me?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you require my assistance."

John took that as a yes and let him towards the room he had shared with Adrian, pausing briefly to stare at the unkempt bed before he forced his eyes towards his suitcase and begin to pack his clothes. Sherlock looked towards the bed and felt anger building up once again.

"Is this where – "

"Yes," John cut across him quickly, as if he didn't want Sherlock to finish his question.

The consulting detective nodded and began to help his friend pack his belongings before he opened the door for him. "Are you sure you want to come back with me, John? I'd understand if you didn't want to."

John shook his head before he stopped and looked at his friend before smiling sadly. "Sherlock, I promise there is nowhere else I'd rather be."

* * *

After they had gotten John moved back into 221B, Sherlock made them both tea but neither had sat down yet. John leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing his tea cup. His friend stood inches away from him with his own tea cup steeping beside him on the counter.

"Sherlock, I'm… I'm sorry about everything I said to Adrian about you. I didn't mean to hurt you like that."

Sherlock tried not to look hurt or solemn but he could tell his eyes were giving him away. "Why would I ever feel hurt?"

John sighed softly. "You know why, Sherlock. He was wrong; you're not mechanic, or a machine. You're as human as they come. You act like things don't affect you but I know they know. I might be the only person in your life who knows the true you, and I'm fine with that. What he said, what I told him…. It was wrong of me to do that. I only told him because I was… frustrated towards you at the time and Adrian was still proving to be a decent person."

Sherlock sipped his tea before he searched his friend's face. "Are you still frustrated towards me?"

"No," John shook his head. "In fact, I've missed you a lot. Sherlock, the truth of the matter is… since you came back, you're the only thing I could concentrate on. Not just because of the cases we've been doing or anything like that; you've made me see that life can change, for the better. Before I met you, I was lost, having nightmares… and you came into my life. I didn't need a cane or therapy anymore. And now today… you saved me from… an absolute madman. He was a mistake I made and I know I don't deserve you anymore but… would you consider allowing me to be your… your boyfriend?" he asked with a nervous chuckle.

Sherlock searched his friend's eyes, unable to believe this was really happening. He nearly dropped his tea in shock and surprise but quickly set it back down on the counter. "Yes, of course I would, but… are you sure you're ready so soon? It's only been a few hours since you ended things with Adrian and that didn't exactly go over smoothly."

John shifted his weight and he smiled weakly. "I'm sure, Sherlock. I'm… madly in love with you and I only regret not having told you before. I was confused, I suppose. I knew Adrian from work and it somehow made more sense to me to date him to… make sure my feelings were the right ones. I know this all sounds absolutely ridiculous but – "

Sherlock had grown weary of John's talking and moved towards him before he gently kissed John. He lingered on the doctor's lips before he moved away reluctantly, blinking. "I'm…I'm sorry, John. I'm not sure why I just did that."

John laughed, grinning now. "It's because you love me too. You still love me, after all the hurt I caused you."

Sherlock smiled meekly, breathing a sigh of relief that the feeling had been mutual. "Yes, I suppose I do. John, I must confess… I'm not familiar with relationships at all. I don't know what to do and I'm afraid of disappointing you."

John leaned up and kissed him again, this time more passionately, unable to get enough of his companion's lips. When he pulled back again, he looked at Sherlock with love and warmth in his eyes. "You don't need to be afraid of disappointing me. I'll help you if you have trouble. I'm sure you'll do fine though. Just… do what your heart tells you, Sherlock."

The detective nodded in understanding before he hesitantly placed his hand on John's jaw softly. He leaned in and then kissed him back with just as much passion as John had given him moments ago. The two of them stayed like that, tasting each other finally before moving away again. John smiled at him again.

"Are you hungry? You must be hungry. You barely eat. Let me make us something…" John offered, moving around him to get out a pot from the cupboard.

"Oh, no, John. I assure you, I'm really not very hungry. I just… want you."

John raised an eyebrow and chuckled before he turned around. "Maybe we should move this conversation to the couch?"

Sherlock laughed a deep-throated laugh before he lead them into the living room, gently grabbing the doctor's hand and pulling him onto the couch with him. He wasted no time in pressing his lips against John's again, this time letting his hand caress over the doctor's shoulders and around his back. Their bodies soon contorted to fit both of them on the couch as they made out until their lips ached.

Once this happened, John rested his head on Sherlock's chest and it wasn't long until he fell asleep to the gentle, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.


	8. Not Leaving You

A/N: **Ayno23 – Aw I'm sorry if it seemed rushed and you wanted it to happen a bit slower. I was thinking that as I was writing it, honestly, but I couldn't think of how else to slow it down. I might go back to that chapter some time and find a way to slow it down if I feel inspired. I'm glad you liked the rest of the chapter though! **

* * *

Chapter Eight: Not Leaving You

.o.o.

.o.

_That we won't run, and we won't run, and we won't run._

_And in the winter night sky ships are sailing,_

_Looking down on these bright blue city lights._

_And they won't wait, and they won't wait, and they won't wait._

_We're here to stay, we're here to stay, we're here to stay._

_Howling ghosts they reappear_

_In mountains that are stacked with fear_

_But you're a king and I'm a lionheart._

_A lionheart._

Of Monsters and Men – King and Lionheart

**.o.o.**

**.o. **

John smiled when he glanced over at Sherlock, who was currently looking slightly perplexed. His smile faded and worry creased his eyebrows.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

It took the consulting detective several moments to realize that his companion had asked him something. "Hm? Oh. Nothing."

John looked skeptically at him and sighed, getting up from his armchair to sit down on the coffee table in front of where Sherlock was laying. He reached out almost tentatively for Sherlock's hand and felt a warmth run through him when he let John hold it; their first affectionate touch as lovers and companions. He gently caressed Sherlock's smooth skin and long fingers. "Do you honestly think that I can't tell when you lie after living with you for so long? Come on. Let me in, Sherlock…"

He didn't look at John but let his fingers dance with John's affectionately back. "Tell me that you're not here with me because you feel bad for my loneliness, John. I want the truth, but tell me that you're here because you feel the same affections for me as I do you."

John was surprised at the almost pleading tone in Sherlock's voice. He hardly ever begged like this. He leaned forward slightly. "Sherlock, look at me," he ordered gently, and then continued when Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "I love you, you mad bastard. I'm not here out of pity. I'm here with you out of love and I was too thick to see what was right in front of me. You mean the world to me."

His friend didn't look entirely convinced but he nodded. He searched John's brown eyes before he suddenly leaned in and pressed his lips against the doctor's, wrapping his hand around the back of his head in his passion. John kissed him back, tasting the desperation and fear in the kiss Sherlock had started. He reluctantly pulled away. Sherlock sat up and he looked down at his hands unsurely.

"I-I'm sorry, John. I'm not… sure what came over me."

John Watson wasn't sure what he had expected Sherlock to act like in a relationship but apologetic, desperate and scared weren't any of the reactions he had anticipated. He took both of Sherlock's hands in his own and forced him to meet his eyes again. "You're scared. You're scared that you're going to lose me like how you feel like you lost me the first time, to someone else, and that's normal. It's normal to feel like that. It's… human. You're not a machine. I know you're not. You hurt like everyone else, even if you deny it."

Sherlock shook his head, fear written on his face. "I t-thought that I wanted this. I thought I could do a… a relationship with you but now… I-I'm not quite so certain. I lack a certain ability..."

John shook his head in protest. "No, no… I know that's not true. Do you love me, Sherlock?"

The detective sighed and tried to make a dismissal wave but at the last minute seemed to remember that his fingers were still interlocked with John's. "Love is… a dangerous disadvantage and… sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, John."

John shook his head more firmly this time. "No, stop feeding me Mycroft's words. You might have said them at one point but I know you don't feel like that. Tell me, Sherlock; do you love me?"

Sherlock was quiet for what felt like ages but he finally nodded resignedly. "Yes, John. I do. I do love you."

John felt his heart swell and he smiled softly. "Good, then, because nothing you say is going to convince me otherwise. I remember when you first told me your feelings for me that one day and… I wanted to tell you the same, I really did. I suppose it was all about timing, though. Maybe… if I had felt for you at the time the same way you felt for me, then things would've been different."

Sherlock finally forced himself to look at him. "What changed your mind? What made you love me?"

John blushed slightly and he cleared his throat. "Well, err… I suppose seeing you all protective about me certainly helped. I've… always felt _something _towards you after doing all these cases with you, Sherlock. I may have tried to push it down when it was inconvenient for me but obviously there's no more hiding it. I care about you more than I've cared about anyone and I know that you feel the same way about me."

Sherlock nodded confidently and relaxed a bit. "I'm... really glad I have you in my life, John. You're everything to me. I'm not very good with these sorts of things but I'm going to try to be the best person I can be for you. You… bring out the best in me."

The doctor's smile grew brighter and his smile reached his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this happy. John leaned in and gently rested his forehead against Sherlock's, occasionally nuzzling his cheek against his companion's. Sherlock let out a deep throated chuckle as he smiled contently as well.

"God, this feels so… so right," Sherlock confessed.

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's breath so close to him. It _did _feel right, there was no denying that. This felt the most right things felt in such a long time. He lifted his hand up and placed it on Sherlock's jawline, gently thumbing his soft skin there.

Sherlock let out an involuntary moan as the doctor's hand then moved down towards his shoulders and then chest, moving downward. He pulled the doctor on his lap and placed both hands on John's face before he started to passionately kiss him, letting their tongues dance over each other elegantly in a waltz only he could create.

It wasn't long before both their shirts came off along with their trousers and they were both laying on the couch in just their boxers. Sherlock and John both felt sweat beating their skin as they made out with as much passion as they possessed.

Finally, John leaned away, breathless. "S-Should we take this into the bedroom, then?"

Sherlock smirked slightly and then nodded before he stood up and grabbed John's arm to pull him up. As John was making his way towards Sherlock's room, Sherlock leaned over and smacked the doctor's ass gently before he laughed another deep, throaty chuckle as the two men disappeared into the room.

They emerged from the bathroom about two hours later, already washed up with wet hair that matted their foreheads and clean bodies that left no evidence of what took place earlier. Sherlock tied the scarlet red gown that was now draped over his shoulders and looked over at John had sat down in his armchair, grabbing the newspaper.

"Would you like some tea?"

John glanced over at him from his place and smiled, feeling like they were already married. Everything about this felt so natural. "That'd be great. Thanks, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned on the fire underneath the kettle and took out two cups before he dropped teabags into both just as his phone chimed. He ignored it, afraid that if he looked at it, then this moment with the man he loved would be over forever.

John looked over at the coffee table as Sherlock's phone chimed a second time. He looked over at Sherlock questioningly. "Would you like me to get it for you?"

The detective gave an apathetic wave before actually shaking his head. He wet his lips before he placed his hands on either side of the tea cups on the counter and leaned down, balancing his weight with his shoulders. He nearly cringed when it chimed a third time.

"Oh for God's sake!" he cried out in frustration before he finally walked over to his phone and went through it.

"Sherlock," John spoke, almost in a warning voice.

"My apologies, John," the detective remarked, but obviously didn't seem very sorry at all.

_Three Unread Messages from Mycroft Holmes:_

_We need to talk, dear brother. – MH_

_It's rather urgent, if you don't mind. – MH_

_I'm at Baker Street. I'm coming up. – MH_

"Damn it…" Sherlock groaned before he walked over to the flat door and opened the door to see a rather bored looking Mycroft standing before him.

"Did you honestly believe I wouldn't hear about the schoolyard brawl you had as well as the incidence that occurred here with that same man?" Mycroft drawled before he walked inside.

John stood up and walked into the kitchen to tidy up so the brothers could have some resemblance of privacy.

Sherlock watched John do this and then looked over at his brother. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Mycroft."

His older brother walked further in and sat down where John had been sitting. Sherlock just remembered the tea but when he looked over, he saw John turning the burner off and pouring three cups inside of two. He looked back at Mycroft with impatience in his eyes, waiting for an answer.

"It won't do you justice to deny anything, dear brother mine. I am all too aware of your goings-on nowadays, Sherlock. Tell me, what was your petty fight over? Please do tell me it was worth the damage done to your face and he's not pressing charges against you…"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "I assure you it was well worth it, and I believe it'd difficult to press charges against someone when you're locked up inside of a mental hospital," he replied, perhaps a bit too smugly. "Anyway, shouldn't you know all this? I thought you had your fingers in all the pies of the country?"

Mycroft smirked before taking the tea John had walked over to them to offer the brothers. "Thank you, John," he looked over at Sherlock just as he smiled softly at John and winked at him. His brother eyed Sherlock warily now before his eyes widened and his mouth opened in almost disbelief. "What was that?"

The detective cocked his head slightly to the side. "What was what?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable before he tried to fix his demeanor. "Nevermind. It isn't important in the least. Just tell me this so I can be on my way. Who was this man to you? Do you require my assistance, Sherlock?"

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock took a sip of his tea as he watched John walk back out into the kitchen. "As much as it displeases you to hear, I don't constantly require you to help solve all my problems. This man was a friend of John's who… merely rubbed me the wrong way and I lost my temper. He came in here the other day and he became violent, threatening both of us. I believe he had some type of breakdown and he was inconsolable. I had to call Lestrade. I was fearing for both of our lives, Mycroft. That's the whole of it."

Mycroft nodded in understanding and then took a sip of the tea before he placed it back on the plate. "As long as this doesn't affect me. I do not wish for this incident to come back and hurt either of us, dear brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes tapped his fingers on the arm of his own chair. "It won't. Is that all you came here for? Because you were worried about your reputation? I assure you that it'll remain firmly intact."

John sipped his tea from the kitchen, pretending to scrub at a stubborn stain on the counter as he unintentionally eavesdropped on the brothers' conversation.

"I came here because… God help me, I worry about you. With your history of substance abuse, it would be irresponsible of me not to check up on you every now and then, would it not?" he drawled coldly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat somewhat uncomfortably now. He took a long sip of his tea before glancing at John in the kitchen. He refocused his eyes back to his brother. "I suppose it would be irresponsible. Anyway, you may leave now. I'm not using."

"Would a urine test prove that, Sherlock?"

"Yes," he replied instantly, not missing a beat. "It would, but unfortunately for you, I'm not taking one and you're wasting your time even asking. It's been lovely but goodbye, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed but set his tea down before he stood up and walked towards the door. He had opened it when he finally turned back to look at Sherlock. "I try not to pry when it comes to you so all I'm going to say is I'm grateful for whatever or… whomever, is keeping you clean. Goodbye, Sherlock."

John waited until Mycroft closed the door behind him when he walked out into the living room and sat back down in his armchair, looking at an unsettled Sherlock. He was quiet for several moments before he cleared his throat.

"So… you think he knows then?"

Sherlock looked up from his position in his chair. "Knows… about us?" When John nodded once, Sherlock half shrugged. "I think he suspects. Either way, it's not my problem. Would it bother you if he knew about the two of us, John?"

The doctor thought for a bit, wondering if it would bother him if Mycroft knew. Nothing bad would come from it, certainly. Mycroft Holmes couldn't stop it from happening, and even if he had that power, he probably wouldn't make attempts to stop their relationship. After all, he just wanted his younger brother to be clean and happy, or at least, as happy as Sherlock Holmes could be.

"No, you know what? I don't think it would bother me, actually. Would it bother _you _if he knew? I mean, he might think differently about you."

Sherlock smiled slyly before he took another sip of his tea. "Not particularly. I believe if he knew we were together, in a relationship, he might be less prone to pestering me about taking care of myself. He might be a bit more at ease. If it's all the same to you though, I would prefer he didn't know about us until it's absolutely necessary."

John furrowed his brows in slight confusion but he nodded. "Are you… afraid of him… judging you for what you are? Well, me too, obviously but… you know what I mean. He's… the same way, you know, right?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful, but uncomfortable again. "I know. I'm aware of his sexuality, as… well as ours. I don't think he'd judge me. I think he'd just be... surprised. It's complicated to explain, John, but I'm just not ready for him to know about us quite yet."

John cleared his throat and bit his lip before he looked away, having a difficult time containing his feelings. "Right… sure. Sherlock? Are you ashamed of us? Are you ashamed of me?"

He shook his head. "No, of course I'm not ashamed of you, John. I… could never be ashamed of a man as brilliant as you. I just don't see why my brother has to be aware of our private life is all."

"Our private life? Sherlock, we're not going to tell him we bloody had sex! We'd just tell him we're in a relationship!"

Sherlock shifted again in his seat and set his tea down upon seeing John's anger. "Why? Why's it so vital to you that my brother knows about us? It's not going to change anything between the three of us!"

"Exactly!" John exclaimed. "It's not going to change anything, so why don't you want to tell him? If he knew the exact reason why you were protecting me, he might be less suspicious about you and he wouldn't feel the need for his random visits. I just thought you'd enjoy seeing less of him!"

Sherlock stood up and sighed heavily before he turned around to look out the window, putting his hands on his hips. This was what their first spat was about. Of course it was about Mycroft. It was so typical. "Must we fight about this right now?"

John stood up too. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock! Do you have somewhere better to be at the moment?"

"Stop it!" Sherlock suddenly yelled, spinning around to look at John, waving his arms in frustration. "Please, John! I don't want to fight about coming out to Mycroft! If we're going to have a domestic, I'd rather we fight about... misplaced calls or… someone leaving the coffee pot turned on for hours or… something less significant."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and then looked back up at Sherlock, somehow feeling significantly calmer. "Just… promise me you'll tell him about us one day. That's all I'm asking, Sherlock."

The detective chuckled and sighed softly. "I promise I'll invite him to our wedding. He'll find out that way."

John looked like a young child who was pouting because his mother wouldn't let him have cookies before dinner. He massaged his hands distractedly and looked at the floor.

Sherlock smiled and laughed to himself. "Oh my god… come over here, you stubborn arsehole."

John reluctantly shuffled over to him and then looked up at him, playfully narrowing his eyes. "You're the stubborn arsehole, Sherlock. I don't know how you can do it, though."

He looked at him curiously, a smile dancing on his face as he took one hand and ran it affectionately through John's hair. "Make us stop fighting over… dumb things. I know you'll come out to him eventually. I just… wanted to make sure it wasn't because you were ashamed of us."

Sherlock moved in closer and then wrapped his slender arms around John, resting his elbows on the doctor's shoulders. "I promise it's not because I'm ashamed of us. I love you, John Watson, and nothing can change that. I just need time. Can you at least give me that?"

John nodded against his chest and breathed him in. He didn't know how Sherlock Holmes had the power to make them go from fighting to hugging in less than ten minutes. Sherlock, the man everyone called a machine. It seemed remarkable.

"I can't believe we had a spat over Mycroft, of all people," Sherlock chuckled once they separated. "Isn't it ridiculous?"

"Incredibly," John agreed, also starting to chuckle, much to his own surprise.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from smiling as he looked at John, so he didn't even try. He wanted to reach out and embrace him again, but he swallowed the urge back. He couldn't let John distract him from work, as much as he wanted to.

He bit his lip and then walked over to the desk before he started typing on John's computer. "Right, back to work then."

"Work?" John looked at him with amusement. "What work? We haven't had a case in weeks!"

Sherlock ignored him as he opened their conjoined email and started to look furiously for a case. He needed to keep his mind busy to keep it functioning properly to aid with future cases. If he only had John in his Mind Palace and nothing else, then he'd be useless when it came down to it.

John grabbed both their mugs and took them into the kitchen to wash them out. He glanced over at Sherlock, wondering what was going on through his head, and feeling frustrated that he couldn't read his mind. They worked on their individual tasks in silence for almost an hour before John looked up at the clock and saw what time it was.

"Oh, it's nearly five. What do you want for dinner, Sherlock?"

Silence from his end, the scratching sounds of typing on the keyboard.

John scratched his temple, trying to keep his patience. "Do you want me to order takeout or do you want me to make you something?"

"Mm… yes, sounds good."

John smirked and shook his head. "I'll just make something then, I suppose."

"As you wish, John…"

The doctor started to make spaghetti, hardly believing how quickly Sherlock could go from being affectionate and loving to…well, this. He had become almost cold in his demeanor and John couldn't stop from questioning it as he made their dinner.

"Was it something I've said?" John asked from the kitchen, glancing over at his companion.

Sherlock forced his eyes away from the screen, unable to explain his dark moods to John. It hardly mattered that he was a doctor. He only saw what was physically wrong with them. "Hm? No, no. It's nothing you said, John. I promise…"

John just nodded and turned his attention back to cooking, not fully assured. Sherlock knew that John was aware of his depressed states but he felt foolish explaining that it was because he was feeling depressed that he was acting the way he was. Love, he felt came more naturally to him than confessing why he felt like he wanted to drown in the covers of his bed and sleep for four days straight. He didn't know why but Sherlock felt like he could explain why he loved John so deeply and how he wanted to live out the rest of his days out with the doctor than why he suddenly felt cold, distant, and drowning in a sorrow he couldn't even explain was there in the first place.

After he had finished with the spaghetti, he placed some on two places and set them beside each other. "Dinner, Sherlock!" he called, wanting to make sure he heard him.

The detective looked from the window to the computer screen to John in the kitchen, having lost track of time. How long had he been staring at nothing? He bit his lip unsurely and then stood up before he sighed. "Actually, put mine in the fridge. I'm not really that hungry. I'll have it tomorrow."

John saw the familiar dark storm swimming in Sherlock's eyes and nodded in realization. He gave him a small smile. "Okay… can I… get you anything? Do anything for you?"

Sherlock stopped in mid-step, taken back by the doctor's offer. "That's nice of you but… you can't help me right now." With that, he walked into his bedroom and gently closed the door before he curled into the comfort of his bed.

John Watson felt slightly hurt by the assumption. He could think of lots of things he could to try and help Sherlock. He wanted to help him right now, more than anything. He looked down at his dinner and no longer feeling hungry, he pushed it away and stood up.

John walked towards Sherlock's room and quietly slipped inside before closing the door again, knowing how much he enjoyed the darkness. He walked around to where Sherlock wasn't a lump in the bed and slipped underneath the comforters. He felt around until he realized the detective was curled up in the fetal position, his back towards him.

He put his arms around Sherlock, holding him close. John could feel Sherlock's shoulders shaking and it took him a few moments to register that the detective was _crying. _He felt his heart shattering in his chest, holding Sherlock closer to him.

"Y-You don't have t-to do this, J-John. I t-told you that y-you can't h-help me," he cried softly into his pillow.

John gently kissed Sherlock's bare shoulder before he lingered there. "I know, but I want to at least try. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you."


	9. Happy

A/N: Sorry but this is a shorter chapter.

**EDIT: I changed some of the last bits to this chapter so if you read it once, please read it again. Thanks!**

* * *

Chapter Nine: Happy

.o.o.

.o.

_Fix me_

_Fix my head_

_Fix me please_

_I don't wanna be dead_

_Someday_

_I'll feel no pain_

_Someday_

_I won't have a brain_

_They'll take away the part that hurts_

_And let the rest remain_

**Frank Turner – Fix Me**

.o.o.

.o.

John didn't know what time it was when he woke up but figured it had to be almost after noon. His body ached from the spooning position he had been lying behind Sherlock until he had cried himself to sleep. It wasn't his body he cared about, though; it was his heart. It was breaking his heart seeing his best friend so depressed and low, vulnerable.

It was almost uneasy to see a man he trusted and loved who was usually steady and brilliant in such a state. He had only seen Sherlock this bad once before and even that depressive episode had only lasted two or three days. Just from being with the detective last night, he could tell that Sherlock would be in this Hell for longer.

He carefully got up off the bed and had started heading for the door when he heard a voice in the dark room.

"Where are you going?"

John turned around and although he could just make out Sherlock's outline in the dark room, he knew that he was looking at him with solemn eyes. "I'm just… going to make us a bit of lunch."

There was a hesitated silence, and then a ruffle of the bed sheets. John was tired of guessing what was going on and another thought crossed his mind: what if Sherlock had sharp objects in the bedside table beside him he could turn to and grab in the dark without John even seeing? The doctor walked over to the window and started to pull apart the dark curtains that kept the sunlight out of the bedroom.

"John… please don't do that…"

"We should get some light in here, Sherlock. It's too dark," John replied firmly, deciding to only pull apart enough curtain to let in a ray of sunlight inside, enough so the doctor could see what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock had turned to lay on his stomach and John could see his bare back muscles and shoulders. He walked over to him and knelt down so he could look him in his eyes. "What is it?" the detective drawled tiredly.

John gently brushed a lock of his curls out of Sherlock's eyes before giving him a weak smile. "Tell me your symptoms, the physical ones I mean. I already know the emotional ones."

Sherlock Holmes sighed before he closed his eyes. "Exhaustion. My bones feel like they've been cracked apart and then set on fire. Just… everything aches, John."

The doctor nodded, making mental notes and then noticed the slight circles under his eyes. "What time did you wake up today? You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

Sherlock looked at him with almost bored eyes. "Brilliant deduction, John. I haven't slept all night."

The two men stared each other for a long time before John stood up and walked into the bathroom, grabbed a couple aspirin and then walked into the kitchen and came back to the bedroom with a glass of water. Sherlock forced himself to sit up and then nodded a silent 'thanks' to John before swallowing the medicine.

John glanced at the drawers of the bedside table now before looking back at Sherlock. "If I open these up, am I going to find anything you could possibly hurt yourself with?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the drawers and then looked almost pensive. "Go ahead, look through them."

He didn't want to invade any privacy the detective had left but John also didn't want to regret leaving him alone to go make lunch. He opened both drawers of the table and started to search through them, grabbing any sharp object that could draw blood. He then looked back at Sherlock as he pocketed the objects in the jeans he had never taken off.

"Right, then. I'm going to go make lunch. Do you want to come out and keep me company?"

Sherlock shook his head and then hugged his pillow with both his arms, causing his shoulder muscles to flex. John sighed but stood up and walked towards the kitchen, still feeling apprehensive of leaving Sherlock alone.

As he made them both small ciabatta sandwiches, John glanced around the living room and then around the kitchen. His stomach sank in realization; if he wanted to go anywhere, he'd have to take out all the dangerous items Sherlock might think of hurting himself on. That could take a while. It would just be easier to stay here with him.

He boiled the water for tea and then took the tray of sandwiches, fruit, and tea into the bedroom, lying it carefully on the bed, away from Sherlock's feet.

"Lunch, Sherlock…"

The detective opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at John. "Not hungry."

"I don't care if you're not hungry. You need to at least try to eat something. You haven't eaten anything substantial for quite some time now. Honestly, I have no idea how you're still standing, Sherlock."

John knew that he sounded cold and nagging but he couldn't stop the frustration that was already creeping up. He always felt frustrated when Sherlock got this way, in these black spells that seemed to latch onto him for days, sometimes even weeks. He didn't get quite so frustrated at Sherlock though; it was more frustration at himself for not knowing how to properly deal with these types of things.

Sherlock forced himself to roll onto his side and look at John, hugging the comforter to him. "I appreciate the sentiment, John. I just… can't eat right now. I don't expect you to understand but I have no appetite. Go ahead, you should eat."

John smiled sadly in his direction and sat down on the bed. He moved the tray over to his side now and then started to stroke his companion's black curls affectionately. He felt Sherlock relax and then slowly, he made his way towards John's lap before he laid his head on it.

"I'm sorry I'm so useless right now, John. Maybe if we had a case – "

John shook his head, able to guess what Sherlock was going to say after that. _Maybe if we had a case, I wouldn't be such a wreck right now. _"No, Sherlock. I know you can't help having this. Once you're better, I'm going to see if I can get you something for these spells of yours. Some kind of medication."

Sherlock shook his head now. "I can't. I told you, John; I can't work if I'm taking antidepressants. They mess with my thinking and I can't focus."

John wanted to argue against him, try and make him see reason but now wasn't the time for that. Sherlock was in a depressive state and arguing would just make it worse for him. He continued to stroke his hair lovingly, thinking.

"Sherlock, do you remember… The Woman?"

The detective's body tensed up somewhat. "Of course I remember The Woman. Irene Adler… what about her?"

John wet his lips, trying to figure out how to word this. "You were very fond of her, weren't you, Sherlock? I mean, when she faked her death, you were almost… heartbroken."

Sherlock was uncomfortably quiet. "What's your point?"

John scratched his temple, now biting his lip. "Do you… did you love her?"

"That was a different kind of love, John. That wasn't how I love you," Sherlock began to explain. "That was just… mere fondness for her. She was one of my most interesting cases and certainly one I'll never forget. She led me towards Moriarty, which helped me crack her code."

John kept telling himself now wasn't the right time to discuss things that bothered him but he couldn't stop himself. "You… played sad music for days on end. You hardly slept…"

"It was an act, John. That's all it was. I wanted you to believe I was in mourning and I wanted you, and everyone else to believe I cared about her," Sherlock replied softly before he turned onto his back to look up at John.

"Why? Why did you want me to believe that? You lied…"

"You needed to believe that so…" Sherlock cleared his throat, discomfort on his face. "So that you could believe I was capable of showing affections for someone else. I needed you to believe that I wasn't such a cold, heartless machine."

John closed his eyes, breathing almost a sigh of relief. That made sense, and even if it wasn't true, just hearing Sherlock say these things made him feel better about what had gone on. Sherlock had a history of pulling these stunts to make others believe something else. It was plausible enough, and therefore John saw no other reason to question it further.

Satisfied with Sherlock's answer, he let his fingers caress his partner's forehead lovingly. He smiled sympathetically as he saw the usual sadness glaze over Sherlock's eyes again. He wanted to help him. He wanted to do anything he possibly could to help him but he felt helpless without the use of antidepressants. At least the medication could help balance out the chemical defect in his brain, stabilize him somewhat, maybe help Sherlock even put on a few more pounds.

"Stop it…" the detective suddenly whispered to him.

John sighed but smiled. "I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking though. I can tell it in your silence. You were thinking about me."

"I'm always thinking about, Sherlock Holmes. You're the only person who matters to me enough to think about all the time," John remarked gently. "Do you ever think about me, Sherlock? I mean… when you're not thinking about a case or tobacco ash."

Sherlock turned his head so John couldn't see his face. "Only if you're being particularly annoying at the moment or someone else mentions you by name." He looked back up at John's disappointed face and then managed a small smirk. "Of course I think about you, John. Don't be silly."

John nodded and smiled. "Good. Good… how are you feeling? Any better?"

The younger man shrugged and then rubbed his eyes before he sighed. "I think not. I… can't get these thoughts out of my head."

John looked down at him with concerned eyes. "What thoughts?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked off to the side again before he closed his eyes. "I… think you can deduce what thoughts, John. Please don't make me say them aloud."

John swallowed hard. Great, Sherlock was having suicidal thoughts. How long had this been happening during his black moods? He definitely couldn't leave him home alone now. He was silent as he rattled his brain, trying to figure out what to do.

"You just need to keep your mind distracted. You're good at that, that shouldn't be too difficult for you, Sherlock…"

"I'm only good at keeping my mind preoccupied when I'm not feeling like this. I don't know… how to distract myself now," Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed before he leaned over and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, mentally willing this feeling to go away.

John moved over and knelt behind Sherlock, soothingly caressing his back. He could feel the detective's back trembling and by the soft sounds of sobbing, he could almost feel the same pain his companion felt. He leaned up and then pressed a kiss to the one edge of his shoulder blade before moving over and kissing the other one softly.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock. _You're _going to be all right. This just needs to pass. Hey, come here…" he whispered to him.

Sherlock moved back onto the bed and saw that John was lying under the sheets. He moved under them as well and moved in close to the doctor. He felt warmth reach his feet and could tell that John had taken off his jeans and was just in his shirt and boxers. He wiped away his tears and hiccupped, trying to calm down and feeling embarrassed for being this way in front of John.

"W-Where are your p-pants?"

John smirked and chuckled. "I decided to get a bit more comfortable. Maybe you should take your pyjama bottoms off as well. You might be more relaxed."

Sherlock complied and pulled them off, leaving him in just his own boxers. He moved in closer to John who wrapped his arms around him and the two men cuddled close, letting their warmth heat the other up. Sherlock relaxed a bit as he breathed John in. This was where he belonged. This was where he felt safe from the world.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

The men emerged from the bed some hours later, their hair dishevelled and their bodies slick with sweat, John having kept Sherlock successfully distracted. Neither man bothered to put their pants back on as they entered the living room.

Sherlock sat down on the couch as John walked into the kitchen with the tray to make a fresh assortment of food and evening tea. He didn't know if he could honestly say the depression had disappeared totally but the dark thoughts that had plagued his head all morning had seemed to be gone, at least for now.

John put the fire on under the kettle and glanced over at Sherlock before he took out his phone, debating who to contact. It made sense to the doctor to contact Mycroft, being that he was Sherlock's older brother after all. He should be aware of what was going on.

_Mycroft, I think I might need your help with Sherlock. He's not doing too well today and he told me he was having suicidal thoughts. – JW _

After sending the text, John grabbed two cups and dropped teabags into it. It only took ten seconds before he received a text back. He opened the message to read it.

_What exactly do you suppose I do about that, Mr Watson? You're the doctor, after all. Can you not prescribe him something? – M_

Mycroft really could make him feel like an idiot in one single sentence. John shook his head, sighing before he replied back to him.

_Sherlock already told me he doesn't want any antidepressants because it'll make him lose his focus. What did you do for him when he was younger and had bouts of depression? – JW_

John felt satisfied with his reply and sent it before he walked over to his friend who looked so lonely on the couch. He placed his hands in his pockets and gave him a small smile. "Why don't you go on my laptop and check the email? Maybe someone'll have emailed us with a case?"

Sherlock looked down at his long, slender fingers before he placed his head on the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "Can I just go back to my room? I really don't want to be up right now. I'm too exhausted to even think straight right now, John. Answering ignorant peoples' email is simply out of the question."

John gave him an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "No. No… not this time. You can't stay in a darkened room and not come out for days. Besides, I'm not sure I much like the idea of you being inside a room that you can lock yourself in."

"Oh God! Is this a flat or a mental institution?!" Sherlock yelled, kicking his foot angrily against the coffee table.

John looked at him like he was a spoiled child who was throwing a tantrum just to get his way. "Sherlock, please… can you not do this right now?"

At that precise moment, his phone chimed with a text message. He looked at the message:

_He didn't want to be around us when he went into those dark moods so we just let him be. He came around eventually, but obviously you know better about his condition. You help him using any means necessary. His well-being is in your hands, doctor. – M_

John looked up to see Sherlock looking at him with curiosity in his eyes. "What?"

"You're texting my brother," Sherlock stated. "Why?"

John looked down at his phone and then rubbed the bridge of his nose before he looked over at Sherlock. "Why do you think?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and started to observe John's physical appearance aloud. "You're tired, scared of what I might do in my current mental state. The way you're holding your right thumb indicates you burned yourself making tea, which might suggest you had other things on your mind, mainly me, and you weren't paying proper attention. Your habit of rubbing the bridge of your nose indicates to me that you're stressed about taking care of me because besides your alcoholic sister, I'm the only unstable person you know that you've had to take care of and because it's so personal to you, it stresses you out even more. You're stressed because you don't want to go through this alone."

John suddenly slammed his foot down on the floor. "STOP IT! Stop deducing things! I HATE when you do that, Sherlock! You know I hate it!"

Sherlock sighed now and looked away, his face unreadable to John. "You asked me why I thought you were texting my brother."

"I only needed you to answer in a single sentence, Sherlock! I didn't mean for you to give me the full breakdown!" John continued to yell before he heard the kettle start to scream. He didn't move from his spot, though.

Sherlock glanced back up at him. "I could've told you Mycroft wouldn't be of any help. Why can't _you _help me? You're a doctor, after all!"

"I'm a bloody clinic doctor! Not a psychiatrist! I thought maybe since he went through this with you when you two were younger, he might have some idea on things I could do to help you… but obviously he just ignored you when you were depressed."

Sherlock stood up and stepped on the table before stepping over it and going into the kitchen. He shut off the gas under the kettle and then proceeded to pour the boiling water into the fresh cups. "Yes, Mycroft always treated me like a freak when I fell into these spells. He always locked himself into the library at home."

John, after having taken several deep breaths, followed Sherlock into the kitchen and ran a hand through his hair. "And where did you go? What did you do?"

The detective swallowed hard and watched the color turn inside the cups. "I did the only thing I was good at. I got high, John. I… shot up with anything I could get my hands on and I just stayed as high as I could until I felt my depression disappear for the time."

John's heart sank and he felt sad for Sherlock. This man didn't know any healthy coping mechanisms. He only knew the unhealthy and self-destructive ones. He bit his lip. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. Really, I am. I just… without proper medication, I don't think I can help you in any way that you'll allow me to help."

Sherlock poured the milk into both of their teas before pouring the sugar into his own and then handing John his mug. "I have taken antidepressants before, John. Purely for an experiment to see if I was better on them but the side effects are too much for me. Nausea, loss of sexual desire, fatigue, drowsiness, insomnia, blurred vision, dizziness, anxiety… it seems like being a bit sad is worth not having those side effects, John."

The doctor looked at him with interest as he took a sip of his tea. "Is it? Is it really worth it? It's not just being a bit sad though, is it, Sherlock? You're feeling _suicidal_. That's pretty serious and to me, it seems like those side effects outweigh you being dead."

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. He couldn't go through taking the antidepressants again. He'd tried them for almost four weeks before and he felt tired all the time and the suicidal thoughts had been so severe that if Lestrade had not been there for him, he'd be dead right now. It seemed like luck that the DI had always been present for each of his suicidal attempts, perhaps even fate. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he owed the older man so much.

"The antidepressants didn't help me, John. They made me feels worse! They made me..." he sighed, swallowing the words to the rest of his thought. "I just don't want them. You can throw them out if you need to. They're useless to me." Sherlock wanted to go back into the bedroom to hide under his blankets again but for John's sake, he resisted the urge.

The doctor nodded, thinking. He took the detective's hand in his own and searched his pale face. "Well, sometimes antidepressants don't work the first time. It takes a bit to find the ones that are right for certain people, you know? Maybe... maybe if we get you different ones, we'll find one that works for you."

Sherlock thought about this, letting the idea absorb into his depression-riddled mind. "I'm not seeing a psychiatrist."

John smirked and shook his head. "I assumed you weren't, you stubborn arse."

"So... then how do we get a different one?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Doctors can still hand out free samples to people to tide them over until they can go see a psychiatrist. I have samples in my drawer at St. Bart's. When I go to work tomorrow, I'll bring some home for you and we can -"

"- Experiment with them?" Sherlock finished curiously. A small smile appeared on his face now and he nodded in approval. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. But... won't you get in trouble?"

John half shrugged. "Who's to say I'm not giving them to clients who need them? Technically, you're my patient."

"Oh John... I _do _like the way you think!" Sherlock exclaimed, becoming more and more open to this experimentation idea. He drank a long sip from his tea before he started feeling his adrenaline racing. "I'm sure we can find one that suits me."

The doctor looked almost uneasily at him. He wanted to help the man he loved but seeing his eyes light up at the idea of experimenting with the drugs made him nervous. True, he'd be doing it only under John's supervision, he didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong impression. "This isn't going to be like your other experiments, Sherlock. I'll be dosing them out to you and you won't take any more than I suggest."

The younger man's smile faded slightly but he nodded in understanding. "I know that. You're my doctor, after all. It makes sense if you're the one to give them out to me when you feel is right. It's a controlled experiment. However, if any of them interferes with my focusing on the cases or anything else, then I'm simply going to refuse to continue taking them."

John smiled, having hope that maybe this might actually go according to plan. Maybe they could find one that could help Sherlock at least live with his depression instead of just finding other ways to cope with it. He leaned up and kissed the detective's sharp jawline before he planted a soft kiss to the nape of his neck as well, unable to resist. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled at his touch.

"Mmmm... why is it I have difficulty saying no to you, John Watson?"

John smiled brighter before he set his tea down and kissed Sherlock's lips softly. "Because I'm your doctor, and you have to follow doctor's orders," he smirked, satisfied with his own cleverness.

Sherlock let out a deep-throated chuckle. "Ah, that's right. I should follow the doctor's orders. What does he order now?"

"Hmmm..." John thought, kissing his cheek. "The doctor believes the patient should take his hand and cuddle with him on the couch while we drink our tea before we go to bed."

Sherlock opened his eyes and searched John's eyes. He gently cradled his jaw in his large hand before leaning in and kissing him passionately. Once they pulled away, he took John's hand and lead him into the living room, having hope that things could turn around. There could be a future with John and a future where he could deal with his depression without hard drugs.

Sherlock could actually be happy.


	10. Alive

Chapter Ten: Alive

.o.o.

.o.

_Maybe I just want to fly_

_I want to live I don't want to die_

_Maybe I just want to breathe_

_Maybe I just don't believe_

_Maybe you're the same as me_

_We see things they'll never see_

_You and I are gonna live forever_

Oasis – Live Forever

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

A week had passed since their agreement to get Sherlock to try different antidepressants in search of the right one. John put his ear against the bathroom door to hear the gut-wrenching sounds of gagging coming from inside. He knocked on the door gently.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?'

More gagging before a sound of spitting could be heard, and then his partner's voice. "Yeah, I'm all right, John!" he called out in answer. "Do they all have this side effect? I'm not sure how much more nausea I can take…"

John bit his lip and cracked open the door, seeing Sherlock bent over the toilet, holding himself up by the wall. "It's only been a week on the new ones. Just give it another week or two. Maybe the nausea will pass. Is anything actually coming up?"

Sherlock shook his head and then flushed the toilet before he washed his hands and face at the sink. "Just bile and tea, mostly."

"When was the last time you've eaten anything?"

The detective sighed before he dried his hands with the towel. "When did you make that risotto dish?"

John looked at him in almost disbelief. "That was two days ago. You're supposed to be taking your pills with food! You can't just… not eat and expect them to do their job!"

Sherlock turned and looked at John before nodding, biting his lip anxiously. "I know, I'm sorry, John. I just forget sometimes, is all. I have my mind on other things."

John cleared his throat and rubbed his temples, trying to keep his patience. "Well, you might need to start doing a bit better now that you're on this new medication. You need to start eating, daily, and without me having to remind you to eat. Sometimes it blows my mind how you're still alive! I mean, how did you remember to eat when you were younger? Or when you lived on your own before? I'm honestly surprised you haven't starved yourself to death!"

Sherlock flinched slightly but met his eyes. "You're upset with me…" he observed.

John took a deep breath and then let it out, shaking his head. "No, I'm… I'm sorry, Sherlock. I mean, yes… I am upset but… it's just frustration. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you would remember to eat."

The younger man nodded in understand before he leaned forward and placed his arms on John's shoulders. "I'll try to remember. The great irony though is that taking this antidepressant makes me nauseous, which makes me not want to even eat in the first place."

John heard his companion's own brand of frustration in his voice and sympathy quickly replaced his own frustrations. "I know, Sherlock. It'll get better in time. You're doing really well with it though. Have you had any other side-effects from it so far?"

Sherlock straightened back up and tilted his head to the side to think before he looked down at John. "Headache, exhaustion, the usual. The same side-effects as the first, but that should pass in a couple weeks, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, hopefully. I mean, not all of them work the same but maybe if this is the right one for you, you'll feel better soon. I know it's still early but have you still been feeling low?"

Sherlock's closed his eyes and nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. John was quiet now but he knew that it was still too early to really tell if the medication was working or not. "You know," he finally spoke up after several moments. "It's rare that it would be working already anyway. It could still work. Just… just hang in there and give it time… and _eat._"

Sherlock gave him a weak smile before he nodded obediently. He walked out of the bathroom and into the living room, certain that his best friend had followed him out as well.

"So… have you checked your email recently? Have we gotten any cases yet?"

Sherlock sat down at the desk before turning John's laptop on and waiting for it to boot up. He gave a dismissal wave. "Only ridiculously simple ones I've been able to figure out by myself. 'Is my lover having an affair with someone else?' Those kinds of emails."

John nodded, not surprised that Sherlock wasn't too interested in including him in answering those emails. He pulled a chair over to where he was sitting. As he listened to the gentle tapping of Sherlock opening up the email on the computer, he examined the detective's body nonchalantly.

His shoulders looked broader somehow but the rest of him was looking almost skeletal. It made him think. How could someone like Sherlock be oblivious to basic human needs, such as eating? It seemed to be common sense; like showering or putting shoes on before going out the door. Sherlock's jawline seemed sharper, and his fingers looked bonier than before. It was worrying but he knew he needed to start trusting him to eat and take his medication. That was an important factor in a relationship; trust. Sherlock was trusting him not to leave him when things got tough, like they both knew it would. John felt the least he could do was trust Sherlock as well.

"Anything?"

Sherlock stared at the screen with a bored expression on his face. Then he closed the laptop before he turned to John. "Nope. God! Why hasn't there been any good murders lately? Or even a kidnapping! I'd at least take _that._"

John shook his head with a slight smirk on his face. "Only you could get off on murders and kidnappings, Sherlock. It's no wonder Sally Donovan tried to convince Lestrade it had been you who had kidnapped those children and fed them poisonous sweets before."

Sherlock stood up and then started to pace; at least he still had the energy to be dramatic still. John knew it wasn't just about the drama though. His friend was restless and needed an adrenaline rush. He needed a puzzle to solve.

"I don't… _get off _on them. I just need something that keeps my mind active and alert. I can feel it rotting from being so stationary these past couple weeks," Sherlock sighed heavily, continuing to pace back and forth.

John stood up to stop Sherlock, placing both his hands on his lover's shoulders gently. "I understand that you're bored but you need to try and let yourself relax a bit or you're going to go mad. Just… sit down, and I'll make us some tea."

Sherlock instantly shook his head. "Not this time, John. I'm sick to death of just spending endless days drinking tea that will just come up soon enough anyway! I need _something._"

John tried to think quickly. He thought about all the cold cases Lestrade must have locked away somewhere. Maybe that could keep Sherlock busy until the antidepressants started working? He was almost afraid of what the detective might do if his boredom became too much for him. He took out his phone and showed it to Sherlock.

"All right, I'm going to text Lestrade and ask him if he has anything for you. For God's sake though, Sherlock! Please… just _sit down._ Take a deep breath, try to relax for two minutes," John encouraged him, gently pushing him into his place on the couch.

_I need you to come to Baker Street with a couple cold cases you can't solve. Sherlock's bored. – JW_

He sent the text and looked down at Sherlock who looked frazzled, running his long fingers through his own curls. "So what did he say then?" he asked impatiently.

John chuckled in disbelief and looked down at Sherlock. "I've only just sent it! Give him a bit to reply. If you're not going to eat anything, at least drink your calories." He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass before he poured Sherlock some orange juice and brought it into him, holding out the glass.

Sherlock looked at it reluctantly before he wrapped his fingers around it. He took a small sip of it, glancing up at John. "Happy then?"

"I'll be happy once it's all gone." John nodded towards the glass, feeling like he was talking to a child who refused to eat his vegetables.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation with John, as if _he _was being the most difficult person in the world and _not _Sherlock Holmes, and took a longer drink of the juice. John sat down on the other side of Sherlock before he placed his hand on his thigh.

"I'm not trying to make you eat because I despise you. I just want the antidepressants to at least have a chance to work. I just want you to get better, Sherlock. That's all I want," he searched his eyes. "I love you, a hell of a lot, and I just want the best for you."

Sherlock set his glass down once he had drained it down halfway and nodded. "I understand, John. I do. I know how medications work. I just have to get back into the habit of eating every day. I might forget, though."

John leaned against him and smiled softly. "I'll remind you then, until you get into the habit. How does that sound?"

Sherlock nodded now and kissed John's temple. "That sounds like a plan, John." He reached up and turned the doctor's face towards him, leaning in. His lips had only grazed John's when there was a knock at the door. He growled to himself and then stood up impatiently. "For God's sake!"

John chuckled at the imperfect timing of it all and then watched as Sherlock opened the door to see Lestrade. He waved to the detective. "Hello, Greg."

The DI waved back and then glanced over at a very annoyed Sherlock before he let himself inside. "I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?"

Sherlock slammed the door angrily behind Lestrade. "You know damn right you did! Oh please, Detective Inspector! Please _do _come right in!"

Greg looked questioningly over at John. "What the hell's the matter with him then? Is he withdrawing from nicotine again?"

John gave Sherlock a firm look before he smirked back at Greg. "Don't mind him. It's just the antidepressants he's on. One of the side-effects is agitation. Although sometimes it's difficult to tell if it's the medication or just Sherlock being Sherlock…"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and then sat back down next to John, grabbing his orange juice again.

Greg Lestrade nodded in understanding now. "Ah, I see… that'll do it, I suppose. How's domestic life treating you two? Happy to be back?"

John smiled and nodded. "Yeah, it's great. Now I can help people at work and here!" he gave Sherlock a teasing smirk before he looked back at Greg who smirked as well. "Honestly, though. I love him. It's worth the agitation from his medication."

Sherlock suddenly slammed down his orange juice, causing it to spill over and onto the coffee table. "Stop it! Stop talking like I'm not even here! And _why _are you here, Lestrade?"

John's eyes widened at Sherlock's behavior now. "Sherlock! Deep breath. Just calm down, will you?"

The detective suddenly stood up before he grabbed his cigarettes from the table nearby. He ignored John as he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door. John put his face in his hands before he leaned over and tapped on Sherlock's door.

"Leave it cracked open, please!"

There was a growl come from within the room but Sherlock complied with the doctor. That, at least, had to be a good sign. No matter how angry or frustrated Sherlock was, he was still apt to listen to John.

"I'm… sorry about all that. He's having a difficult transition to the new antidepressants…" John apologized to Lestrade in a tone merely above a whisper.

Greg waved off the apology light-heartedly. "It's fine, John. I know how Sherlock gets. I think once he gets adjusted to it, he'll be better. So then, you wanted the cold cases?"

"Oh!" John straightened up now. "Yes, I did… did you find any good ones Sherlock might be interested in?"

Lestrade placed three files on the coffee table but was careful not to get it into the orange juice that had been spilt. "It's difficult to interest Sherlock but I found a few that might spark his interest. One kidnapping, one not-suicide, and one murder. They're all cases that have been locked up for about ten years."

John raised an eyebrow. "Wait, not-suicide? What do you mean?"

Greg opened the file, flipping it to the picture of the crime scene that was attached to the rest of the papers. John looked at it closer; the victim looked like he had slashes to both his wrists and to his neck. His stomach turned uncomfortably, imagining that it could so easily be Sherlock if his depression got bad enough one day.

"It looks like the victim killed himself with a straight razor, but other evidence suggests otherwise," Greg went on to explain. "It's an ongoing debate but we think that it would be nearly impossible to slash your own throat like that if you had already opened up your wrists first."

John swallowed back the nausea as he tried to focus on the possibilities. "And… if you slit the throat first…"

Lestrade half shrugged. "We're certain that you would've lost so much blood anyway by the time you think about opening up the wrists, that you'd be dead before you could pick up the razor," he finished.

The doctor pondered over this. It was certainly an interesting case but this picture and file were the last things Sherlock needed to see in his current state. It could so easily trigger him, and John was afraid of what might happen then. He closed the file and pushed it off to the side before he glanced up at Lestrade.

"You know the depressive episodes Sherlock gets and yet you pick out a cold case that looks like a suicide. Absolutely brilliant, you are," John replied curtly.

Lestrade opened his mouth, looking partially offended. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? Believe it or not, we don't have many cold cases that haven't been solved by Scotland Yard nowadays so forgive me if I can't find one suitable for the great Sherlock Holmes…"

John sighed, the image of the man still in his head. "I know, I'm sorry, Greg. I just… Sherlock can't see that one right now, not until the medication kicks in and he's… a bit happier at least. The other case files seem like they might be of interest to him, though, so later I'll sit him down and go over them with him. Thank you…"

Greg nodded politely and then walked into the kitchen before grabbing a handful of paper towels and went back into the living room. He started to clean up the orange juice mess Sherlock had left.

John tried to grab the paper towels from the DI. "You don't need to do that, Greg… it was his mess. He should clean it up."

Greg ignored John's grasp and continued to soak up the juice, shaking his head. "No, it's really all right. I've cleaned up a lot worse of his messes."

John looked at Lestrade curiously now. He leaned forward and blinked a bit. "Err… how do you mean? What, err… what sort of messes?"

It was now that Greg Lestrade realized he had said too much. He swallowed hard and then went back into the kitchen to throw out the sticky paper towels. He glanced over at the only partially shut bedroom door before he motioned for John to come out to the kitchen area to talk to him. The doctor stood up and hurriedly walked over to him, having an awful, foreboding feeling about what the DI was about to tell him.

"I don't suppose that Sherlock's told you about… his incidents?"

John felt another wave of his own nausea begin to rise in the pits of his stomach. "I-I'm sorry, incidents? What…err… what sort of incidents?"

Lestrade chewed on his lower lip before he leaned in closer to John. "Sherlock's tried to kill himself more than once. I've… walked in on him each time that he's tried to do it. Thank God, or else who knows where he might be now."

John closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath before he forced himself to look back at Lestrade. "How…H-How many times has he tried?"

The DI anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. "About five times… in the six years I've known him."

"Oh Jesus…" John walked deeper into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair and swallowing hard. "F-Five times…"

"He hasn't told you about this before? At all?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

John couldn't find his words as his mind raced. He just shook his head before he looked back at Lestrade. How could he not know about this, or rather, how could Sherlock never tell him something so important? This wasn't something you keep from your significant other. No matter what, John would never leave Sherlock but this seemed like something like a disclaimer you tell your partner before things get too involved. How could he keep so huge a secret from him?

"Well, I can't say I'm not that surprised," Greg finally admitted after several moments of awkward silence. "It is Sherlock, after all."

"But I've known him for nearly four years! _I _should know about this!"

"Well you can't exactly know about his past attempts if he hasn't ever told you them, can you?" Lestrade pointed out.

John shook his head and then a realization hit him. He moved closer to the DI. "Wait, why didn't _you _ever tell me about this? You could've told me! You've known him for longer, Greg. You know the ins and outs of him!"

"I probably wouldn't have known about it unless I walked in on him each time after he had done it! I just got damned lucky that I caught him in the act, John! Christ, he probably would've kept it hidden from me as long as he could if I hadn't caught him! Don't put the blame on me… it's not my fault he didn't tell you."

It had become John's turn to pace now. "No, maybe not but you could've told me. This is important, Greg! This isn't something you keep hidden…"

Lestrade didn't back down. "I thought that Sherlock would tell you about his attempts in his own time! I thought that he would open up to you. Besides, how would you feel if you tried to kill yourself? Would you be as likely to open up about it to Sherlock?" When John didn't say anything, seeing his point, Greg continued. "I didn't think so. Something like that is personal to a person, John! I can't blame him for not having told you. I wouldn't have told my wife about it either! I would've been too ashamed to."

John stopped pacing and leaned against the counter, feeling mentally drained. He sighed heavily, feeling more disappointed in himself than in Sherlock. He could see Greg's point about feeling too ashamed to tell him. He couldn't blame his friend; if the tables were turned, he would feel the exact same way. The thing was, though, he still felt hurt that Sherlock never told him about it in the first place.

"Haven't you ever seen the scars on his wrists to forearms?" Greg asked, now quieter. "They're fainter than they used to be, but they're still there. I'm sorry you haven't seen them, with how close you two are and all."

John felt his heart sink and break apart in his stomach like shards of glass. He automatically knew that it hadn't meant to come out so cold and condescending, but Greg Lestrade was right; John _should've_ seen the scars, no matter how faint they were. He and Sherlock had been so intimate on several occasions that it seemed almost ridiculous that he hadn't seen every part of him yet. He felt foolish, more foolish than Sherlock Holmes had ever made him feel before they had become lovers.

"I'm sorry, John… I didn't mean to… interfere or anything. I really had thought you'd have seen them or that Sherlock had told you," Greg apologized again.

"No, umm… no, it's all right. It seems that the two of us need to have a talk, however," John spoke, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Thank you again, for the files. I'm sure… that Sherlock will appreciate them."

Greg cleared his throat, taking this as his cue to leave. "Right, then. I suppose I should be off! Keep in touch and let me know how he progresses."

John nodded and gave a weak smile. "Right, I will. Goodbye, Greg."

Once he had left, John placed both hands against the counter, holding himself up by it. He felt like his knees had become jelly and suddenly felt unsupportive. John knew what he had to do now, though. He forced himself to walk towards Sherlock's room. He opened the door all the way and walked inside, not surprised to find the detective smoking as he sat cross-legged.

"I'm not sure how helpful to you I'm going to be, John. I'm only on my second one and my brother has messaged me at least three times, wanting to talk – "

"Sherlock," John cut across him soft, but still firmly. "Can you… show me your arms?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then smirked at him. "I'm sorry?"

John put his arms out in front of him to demonstrate what he wanted his companion to do. "Your arms, put them out like this for me…" he hated himself not being able to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette before he snubbed it out into a nearby ashtray, along with the other fallen soldiers. He then put his arms out in front of him so his palms were facing down. John moved closer to him and then let his fingers caress Sherlock's pale skin affectionately before he gently moved his arms so the detective's palms were facing upwards.

He glanced at his face warily before he pushed the sleeves of his silk robe up and then reached over to turn on a light in the darkened room. John looked back down at Sherlock's arms and saw the scars that Greg had been talking about.

There was a long, vertical, white scar that went from both of Sherlock's wrists where his main artery four and a half inches down to where his forearms were. He couldn't make out how deep exactly it had been but it looked like it had definitely needed stitches to close it. John felt sick again, not wanting to have believed that Lestrade was right. He sucked in a gasp of hair and then traced the scars with his fingers.

John clenched his jaw tightly, closing his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me about them?"

Sherlock retracted his arms from John's grasp and curled them into himself. "They weren't something you needed to know about, as far as I could see."

"Weren't something I needed to know about? You tried to kill yourself, Sherlock! Not even just once or twice. _Five _times! How could you think I didn't need to know about that?" John asked him, feeling hurt again.

Sherlock wet his lips and shook his head in disbelief. "Lestrade told you, didn't he?"

"Of course he bloody told me! Who knows how long it would've taken you to tell me!" John cried out. He looked at Sherlock with pain in his eyes. "I wish it had been you who had told me, and not him."

Sherlock couldn't think of what he should say now. He sighed to himself and then looked down. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't want you to find out about my scars, or my multiple attempts."

John searched his eyes and chuckled without humor. "Ever? I would've spotted them eventually, you know!"

Sherlock shook his head, obviously thinking different. "No, you wouldn't have. I would've made sure you wouldn't have seen them. Why do you think I always laid the way I did in bed, or positioned myself so you wouldn't have been able to see me unless you turned around to look at me when we made love? Why do you think I was so quick in the shower? I did all those things with a purpose, John, I'm sorry to say. I've gone to great lengths to keep them from you, and I would've done it for longer if you hadn't been told about them."

"Why?" John asked now, feeling a plethora of different things inside of him. He felt unable to ask any other questions. "Why hide them? Why hide the fact about your previous suicide attempts? Were you ashamed of them? Were you afraid I was going to judge you?"

Sherlock searched John's face, not wanting to admit that he felt shame about them now. He gritted his teeth before he looked away. "I'm not sure. Perhaps, I was afraid of some judgement from your side. You've had to sew people's wrists back up, I'm sure. I didn't want to seem like one of _those _people to you. I wanted to seem genuine and maybe even something more than that. I… I told you I was depressed and that felt like enough. I felt like you could make your own deductions about my past experiences from that fact."

John nodded, able to see from Sherlock's point of view. He searched his eyes and a sick part of the doctor felt better seeing the regret in Sherlock's eyes. Whether it was regret of finally being found out or regret that he had tried to kill himself several times, John couldn't be sure. Either way it was something that was rarely found in his eyes.

"How can you be so… cold and mechanic about something like this? I mean, this is your life you've tried to end, Sherlock. Can you imagine my life without you in it?" John asked him, feeling tears rise in his eyes.

Sherlock felt his heart twinge with pain when he saw the liquid form in his lover's eyes. "I can be so cold and mechanic about it, John, because it's something that happened in the past. I haven't been on the antidepressants that long. I started them about two months before I met you. My last suicide attempt was about two weeks before I met you. I haven't felt suicidal since then, if you don't count the antidepressants. You make me better, John. You… you keep me right."

John Watson let this absorb into him and he didn't know how or why, but just hearing Sherlock say all this made him feel a bit better about the whole situation. He _did _mean something to the consulting detective, and it was very possible that John was the reason Sherlock was continuing to live.

"That's all I needed to hear. I love you, Sherlock. I… really love you, and I never want to come home and see you lying dead on the floor with your arms opened up," John wiped away his tears and cleared his throat to hide a sob. "Please, don't do that to me, Sherlock. I'm… I'm not as strong as you are. I wouldn't be able to handle that."

Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded before he pulled John onto the bed and pressed his lips passionately against the doctor's, wrapping both his arms around him and then holding him tightly to him. "I won't. I love you too, John Watson. I love you for all that you've done for me, and all that you'll continue to do. You're the brave one to me…"

John smiled, despite his tears and the fear that had begun to fill him up. He kissed Sherlock before the two of them lay down together on the bed, their fingers intertwined, as well as their legs. Occasionally, Sherlock brought their hands up to kiss John's knuckles. It wasn't long before the detective closed his eyes and his breathing soon steadied.

John looked up at him and carefully moved his body so he could rest his head on Sherlock's chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on the gentle rhythm of his heart, willing that heart to never stop beating as long as John was alive.


	11. Dear Brother Mine

Chapter Eleven: Dear Brother Mine

.o.o.

.o.

_And I will run with you_

_And sunlight will break into my eyes_

_And it seems you plugged in the world in_

_'Cause sunlight is streaming from your eyes_

Athlete – Yesterday Threw Everything at Me

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Two and a half weeks passed in 221B and Sherlock's condition still hadn't improved. John had to watch on as his best friend, flat mate, and lover endured nausea, dizziness, and seemingly never ending exhaustion, amongst many other side effects. The doctor secretly made Sherlock stick it out one week long, just so they could honestly say that they gave the antidepressant time to work.

Once the week was through, John walked over to the detective's side as he lay on the couch, his eyes closed but only in an attempt to cease his throbbing headache that didn't seem to be going anyway. He cleared his throat to make his presence known and then took Sherlock's long fingers into his own.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed softly and regardless of the annoyed expression that was visibly written on his face, he gently caressed John's hand affectionately. "Like death warmed over. I've been eating and taking my medication, John. It isn't working…"

"I agree," John nodded. "That's why I think you should try this other antidepressant. It's something that the hospital just got in. I've got enough free samples for you to last about another two and a half weeks."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John with curious eyes, two fingers gently massaging his temples. "Really? Well, that's good then, I suppose. Where is it? Let's start me on this new antidepressant you've got."

John wet his lips nervously before he gave him a weak smile. "I want to try and withdraw you from the last one first before I start this new one. Just for twenty-four hours, okay?"

Sherlock nodded understandingly, aware of the experimentation process. It wasn't that different between plants, animals, and humans really. It made perfect sense to get the chemicals out of the subject before putting new and different chemicals in.

"So, any new cases then?" Sherlock asked John, eager to change the subject off of himself.

John leaned forward ran his fingers down the back of Sherlock's hand. "Not unless they're in our email. I haven't talked to Greg lately. What about the other two cold cases? Have you figured them out yet?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and I've already sent my findings to Lestrade last week. Easy enough, I didn't even have to leave the flat." He suddenly became quiet and John watched as his demeanor tensed up a bit. "I… err… solved that other cold case, the… uhh…not-suicide…"

John straightened up and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, umm… how did you find out about that one, Sherlock?"

The detective searched John's face, noticing that he was just as uneasy about discussing it as he was himself. "You think you hid it well underneath your armchair, but I found it one day when I dropped my pen. It rolled underneath your chair and I saw the file folder. Anyway… I solved it, and… it's done. I… gave Lestrade the results from that one as well."

John nodded in acknowledgement, conflicted as to whether he should scold Sherlock or congratulate him. He searched his companion's eyes for the answers. "And… you were okay? I mean, that one didn't trigger you or anything, did it?"

Sherlock released John's hand and then sat upright. He brought his legs into him so he was sitting Indian-style on the couch, facing the doctor. "It did at first, to be honest. I just… approached it subjectively and I suppose you could say, mechanically as well. I couldn't let my emotions get involved in that case or else it was going to trigger my depression."

John nodded again. "R-Right… right, good! So… umm… what were your results from that one? Was it actually a suicide?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at his fingers. "No, obviously. The young man was murdered. There was no logical way he could commit suicide in the matter that he did. It was just made to look like he did it, though."

John nodded and sniffed softly. The two of them sat in reasonably awkward silence, the other one waiting anxiously for the other to say something to break the tension. Finally, Sherlock decided he should be the one.

"John, I know… I know it's difficult to talk about these things with me and I know you're afraid you're going to trigger me if we talk about it – "

"Well, won't I?" John asked, genuinely concerned about Sherlock's well-being. He loved him, and the last thing he wanted to do was set him off.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock continued, ignoring the fact that John had interrupted him. He remained oddly calm. "I don't fully understand it myself but as far as I can see, talking about it doesn't always trigger me, and even if I do get triggered, my first impulse isn't going to go in the bathroom and… off myself. I might be quiet or just decide I want to be alone or something along those lines but my first thought isn't going to be to end my life in the case that I _do _get triggered."

"I… think it's important that we talk about your feelings, Sherlock. If you won't talk to a psychiatrist about how you're feeling, then why not talk to me? I think talking could help you open up about these sort of things."

Sherlock smirked now and chuckled. "Spoken like a true doctor."

John sighed and gave him a firm look. "I'm only trying to help you… I don't like to see you in a low state just as much as you despise being in one."

"Yes, John. I know. I'm just not one for opening up about these sorts of things…"

The doctor suddenly got an idea. It was ridiculous but it seemed ridiculous enough to work. He moved over and sat down next to Sherlock, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. "Okay, I get why you can't open up to me about your depression, but what about if you opened up to your brother? Do you think that would be easier?"

Sherlock pondered this. A part of him had to resist laughing but the other half of him wondered if this was a realistic possibility. His brother knew about his depression. Mycroft had diagnosed his brother with it as soon as he had noticed the signs; withdrawal from activities that once pleased his little brother, isolation, talking about death and dying, feelings of worthlessness. They were both fairly young still so neither could really do much about it, and telling their parents was out of the question entirely. John had gone to Mycroft a few weeks ago, though, and he appeared to have been of some help, even if Sherlock wasn't totally sure what he had told John.

"Do you want to text him or shall I?" Sherlock asked him, hoping he wouldn't regret this decision.

John took out his phone and then searched his face. "Are you sure about this? I don't want you to hate me for doing this. I know Mycroft and you don't always get along."

Sherlock sighed and gave a wave. "Just send him the message. I'm not going out anywhere so he's going to have to come here."

John shook his head but was smiling to himself, just grateful that Sherlock had agreed to talk to his brother. He looked down at his phone as he typed the message:

_Mycroft, Sherlock wishes to discuss something with you. Please come as soon as you are able today. –JW_

After sending it, he looked up at Sherlock. "Always bending over backwards for your brother. It's touching, really," John replied sarcastically, still smiling. "Do your parents know about your condition?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back on the couch. "Do they know about their youngest son's strongly stigmatized mental illness? Please. They won't ever know about it, if I have any say in the matter. Has he replied back yet?"

John glanced down at the phone and then back at Sherlock. "No, not yet. A bit early anyway. I just sent it to him…"

The detective gave him a knowing look. "He's either talking to very important people or he's ignoring you. I'm sure it's the former. He might say he can't stand me but he still finds the time to make some smart crack about how I can't take care of myself."

"You know, it's really a miracle you two didn't kill each other when you were younger."

They heard the door to the flat open and saw Mycroft walk inside, smiling cheekily at John. "I assure you, John, it wasn't for lack of trying…"

John looked down at his watch and then back at Mycroft. "Wow, well… you made good time. I'll just… pop out for some groceries and I'll be back later." He stood up and then walked towards the desk before he stopped and started to pat his pants down.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again before he looked over at John. "They're in the bedroom. Remember? I complained that they were digging into my leg?"

"Oh! Right…" He blushed slightly before he disappeared into the bedroom. He came out a few moments later and looked at both the brothers before he nodded to Mycroft and smiled lovingly at Sherlock. "Be back soon."

Mycroft waited until the doctor had disappeared before he finally spoke to his brother. "It must be so nice to be in love…"

Sherlock could sense the teasing in Mycroft's voice and stood up. "It is, not that you would know that much about how it feels to have someone not only tolerate you, but love to tolerate you every minute of every day. Even our own parents had their limits. Tea?"

Mycroft nodded once as his answer. "Oh yes, I do remember. Tell me, dear brother, do you miss the days when such things as love didn't interfere in your decision makings and your cases? I thought I had made it clear to you that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side…"

The detective lit the fire underneath the kettle and took out two cups before he threw a teabag into each mug. "I find that being in a relationship with John doesn't stop me from making correct deductions or nonsensical decisions. In fact, believe it or not _dear brother_, being in one has evolved my skills. Maybe one day you'll see what I mean when you find a… goldfish you can love."

His brother showed no sign of irritation, merely grimacing, as if the idea of allowing another human being to love him physically pained him. For all Sherlock knew, maybe it did. "I find discussing your love life and my lack of one fairly exhausting. What is it exactly you wished to actually discuss? Please tell me I didn't waste my time cancelling lunch dates with important people to come over here and chat about love lives?"

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the cups and handed Mycroft his own before he motioned back towards the living room and sat down in his chair across from John's armchair. He looked up at his brother. "Come and sit. I promise I don't wish to drawl on and on about how happy I am living in domestic bliss. Quite the opposite, actually."

Mycroft looked at his little brother curiously before he sat down across from Sherlock. He took a sip of his tea and then relaxed his body in the chair. "Oh? Please do go on…"

It took the consulting detective a bit to compose his thoughts, killing time by sipping his own tea. He searched his brother's face. "I… I'm having difficulty coping with my depression. The antidepressants I was on these past couple weeks haven't been working and John believes that putting me on a new antidepressant might help me."

"What do _you _think, Sherlock?"

"I have no reason to think differently. It makes sense to change the variable in an experiment if the subject isn't experiencing the effects they're aiming for, is it not?" Sherlock knew he was being a bit cold and definitely calculating but that was his first instinct, especially in front of his equally cold and calculating brother.

Mycroft nodded slowly, obviously thinking. "It is, and if you believe that putting yourself on a new medication will help with your illness, then by all means do so, Sherlock. God knows the nation can't afford for your mind to be like broken shards of glass, bouncing around inside that skull of yours."

"I intend to let John give me new antidepressants. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about though, Mycroft. I was merely briefing you on the status of my condition," Sherlock looked up at his brother who nodded in acknowledgement and then motioned for him to continue. He wet his lips anxiously. "I've… I've been thinking about my own demise a lot lately. Because the antidepressants haven't been working for me, my thoughts have been going to… dark places."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but this time, his face contorted into a look of concern. He set tea down and placed his arms on the arms of the chair before he looked at Sherlock again. "Err… have you told John about this?"

Sherlock set his jaw, trying to ignore the pain he was feeling in his chest. "I've only told him about my past attempts. I've… vaguely, very vaguely actually, told him about the ones I've been thinking about recently. I promised him I wouldn't go through with it but… they're worse than I've let on."

His brother looked visibly tense. The eyes that were usually hard and cold showed sympathy and worry now. "Have you… talked to Greg Lestrade about these thoughts?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "No, he's blissfully unaware of them. I'm hoping that once I'm on these new antidepressants, the thoughts will disappear. I just… need to make it until then." He took a deep breath and sighed before he stood up and walked over to his dressing gown and grabbed the half empty carton of cigarettes before sitting back down.

"You know you're not supposed to smoke while you're taking the antidepressants, right, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked him with apprehension in his voice as his eyes followed Sherlock's fingers as he lit the end of one of the cigarettes.

"I am aware of that, Mycroft. Anyway," he went on after taking a drag. "John has me withdrawing from the old medication for twenty-four hours and on average, antidepressants don't usually get thoroughly absorbed into the brain and bloodstream for about two to two and a half weeks."

His brother nodded and searched Sherlock's eyes. "So, when will we know if they're working or not, then?"

"Most likely within two weeks, give or take two days. We haven't had hardly any cases, besides the cold ones that Lestrade had given me. I don't have any proper distractions to help me take my thoughts off of doing… drastic and dangerous self-destructive things to myself," Sherlock admitted as he took another drag.

"Where do I come into play? I don't understand…"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I just need someone to talk to about these things, and I don't feel like I can properly discuss them with John – "

" – conflict of interest…" his brother deducted softly.

"Exactly. I figured maybe I could talk to you about anything I'm thinking about doing or… I don't know, exactly. John just suggested I talk to someone about these types of things."

Mycroft let out a weak chuckle. "Sherlock, I'm not a psychiatrist. I don't know if I can be the one who helps you. Knowing you, I'm assuming you're not willing to see a psychiatrist though."

"You'd assume correctly," Sherlock nodded, flicking the growing ash on the end of his cigarette before he took another drag.

"If money's the issue, I'll pay however much it is for you to get the help you need, Sherlock. I'm not above doing that for you. Love you or hate you, you're still family," Mycroft remarked.

"That's very touching, Mycroft, but money isn't the reason I don't want to see a psychiatrist. They're simple minded people who just gets paid a massive amount of money to listen to other people complain about their mediocre lives. I refuse to see someone I have to pay when I can just have you listen to me instead, for free," Sherlock replied, sighing.

Mycroft eyed his brother with uncertainty. "What do you want me to do for you, Sherlock? I'm not qualified to give you professional opinions. I can barely give you familial compliments or adoration."

"I realize that, Mycroft. I only ask that you come here to the flat maybe twice a week, listen to whatever it is I have to say, tell me what you can deduce from my statements, and then you can return back to Pall Mall."

Sherlock met his brother's eyes, trying to figure out what he must be thinking. All that he could come up with were his own deductions of himself: _pathetic. Disgusting. Mentally disturbed. Bothersome. _He began to rub his temples where another headache was forming. He took another drag before he forced himself to put it out into an ashtray.

"I'll do it; I'll do as you request of me. What days do you wish for me to come and visit?"

Sherlock felt taken aback. He hadn't expected Mycroft to agree to any of it and was thoroughly surprised when he had, as well as given him the choice of days. "Err… what days are best for you?"

He waited patiently as Mycroft took out his phone and began to go through his calendar. "Let's see… today is Wednesday? I am available Fridays and Tuesdays, from about four in the evening until eight. Will that suffice?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I believe that'll work. Might I ask you something, Mycroft?" When his brother nodded and tucked his phone away again, he continued. "Why on earth are you agreeing to help me? Are you expecting anything in return?"

His brother thought for a minute or two before he placed his hands on his knee. "Tempting, but I've agreed to help because you're my younger brother as well as my only one that I have. I told you before that your loss would break my heart, Sherlock. Well, I meant it, truly. Now, do you wish to begin talking right now or would you like me to leave now and return on Friday?"

He glanced at the clock. He knew that Mycroft's expensive car was probably waiting for him outside, and John wouldn't come back inside 221B until the car was gone. "You can come back on Friday, I suppose…"

"Very well, then. As always, it's been a pleasure to see you, dear brother mine," Mycroft stood up and started for the door.

Sherlock stayed in his spot in the chair, glancing over at him. "You don't need to lie, Mycroft. This couldn't have been pleasant for you."

Mycroft opened the door and then turned to face his brother. He smiled softly, but it looked more like a smirk. "Any day that you're still alive and talking is pleasant for me. I see no reason for our rivalry in the criminal world to disrupt our familial obligations to each other. I shall see you on Friday, Sherlock."

The detective watched as he disappeared out the door and then looked down at the crackling fire. He wanted to believe that his brother was doing this out of the kindness of his own cold and bitter black heart but he was also slightly worried that Mycroft had agreed to help him for other reasons, such as to have blackmail he could pin on him in the future between dealings with his enemies. He let the thought dissipate from his thoughts for now when John walked in.

He smiled to himself, having correctly predicted the arrival of his companion. He looked up at John who was carrying a large brown paper bag. "Do you need help unloading the groceries?"

John gave him a small smile. "Nope, thank you anyway, Sherlock. I can do it. How did it go, then? With Mycroft…"

"I would say it was successful," Sherlock answered, looking back at the flames of the fire. "He's coming by on Fridays and Tuesdays. It seems like he's genuinely concerned about my well-being."

John put away some of the cold things before glancing at Sherlock. "We all are… we only want you to be healthy, or at least as healthy as you can be. Anyway, he's your brother. He's sort of obligated to care about you, isn't he?"

Sherlock reached over and took a sip of his tea. "I suppose so, but I didn't expect Mycroft to act and look the way he did while we discussed me. He seemed worried about me. He hardly ever seems worried about me, even when I was taking morphine. After all these years, he's still able to surprise me…"

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock eagerly awaited the twenty-four hours that was required of him until the morning came. He was already awake by four and passed time by reading one of his science books. Once five-thirty rolled around, he made coffee for John and himself before he closed his book and stood up, pacing.

"Jesus, Sherlock… how long have you been up for?" a tired voice yawned as John walked into the kitchen and poured himself coffee.

"About an hour and a half. I need my new antidepressants, John. Please give me them," Sherlock half-demanded, half-begged as he walked into the kitchen as well.

The doctor blinked a couple times. "You know that they're not going to work instantaneously, right? You know that it'll take a few weeks. Why don't you just have some coffee instead?"

Sherlock followed John into the living room, shaking his head. "I don't want _coffee_, John! I want the antidepressants you promised me! I need them to work as soon as possible and I think I've waited long enough to get better. Please, John… please just give me them right now. The sooner I can take them, the sooner they'll work, even if it's just a few hours sooner. It makes all the difference to me."

John looked at his partner sadly and set his coffee down on the table beside the chair before he stood up, making his way towards his briefcase. He opened it up on the coffee table and then gave Sherlock two plastic packs. "Here, Sherlock. There's four there; two each day. Take them in the morning, with food."

Sherlock looked at the packages and reluctantly opened one of them before he swallowed them with water. "What should I eat?"

John sighed before he walked back into the kitchen and popped toast into the toaster. He buttered the slices and then handed them off to Sherlock on a paper towel. He watched as the detective began to gingerly bite off each piece, seeing the partial confusion written on his face. "What is it? What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock swallowed the bites he had been chewing before he looked at John. "Why only give me enough for two days?"

John searched his eyes. "Make a deduction about it, Sherlock. Why do you think I'd only give enough for two days? Well, one more now…"

Sherlock pondered this for about thirty seconds before he answered. "It seems to me you either stole only two days' worth of antidepressants, afraid of being found out possibly, or… you are afraid I'm going to overdose on them if you give them to me all at once. I suspect the latter."

"You're right," John nodded, somewhat nervously. "I am afraid of you doing that. I'm not… trying to do this because I don't love you. You know that, right, Sherlock? I'm giving them to you in small doses because I want you around longer. I want you to stay alive and… I want to trust you."

Sherlock took another bite of his toast, although it was more forced than him actually being willing. "You don't trust me anymore, John? Is it because I told you about my past suicide attempts?"

John shifted uneasily and cleared his throat before he nodded. "Yeah, err… yes. I mean, I knew you were depressed but I guess I didn't ever want to consider the possibility that you would… purposely end your life, and not even just once. You tried it five times…"

Sherlock wanted to yell at him. He wanted to scream and cry and punch something. He swallowed hard and set his toast down, no longer having an appetite. He knew it was his own fault. John's lack of trust was his own undoing, but he was already regretting having confessed it to him. He wished he could take his secret back and hide it somewhere within him.

"I already promised you I wasn't going to do it again. I don't understand, John. Why is that not enough for me to earn your trust?"

John reached up and cupped his cheek softly, maybe even apologetically. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Saying it and doing it are two different things. I promise I can trust you more once you've taken this antidepressant for at least two weeks. Then I'll give you them in larger doses."

The detective shook his head, unable to contain his distaste for this plan. "For God's sake, John! I'm not a child!"

John sighed, seemingly unsurprised at Sherlock's outburst. "I know you're not a child, Sherlock…"

"So stop treating me like one! We're in a proper relationship now and you're still talking to me like we're only flatmates instead of being romantically involved!" Sherlock exclaimed, already regretting his not entirely truthful words.

John narrowed his eyes. "Well if that's not the pot calling the kettle black, then I don't know what is! You're distant to me, Sherlock… you won't even open up to me all the way. You know _everything _about me and I feel like you're still a stranger! I love you but you won't tell me your secrets that you have no problem telling Mycroft!"

"I thought you were all right with the Mycroft idea! _You're _the one who suggested I talk to him! It was your idea… how can you suddenly not be okay with me doing this? I may be the king of hypocrisy but you're the one who's hiding secrets, John! Don't tell me things are okay if they're not. That's not fair to either of us," Sherlock tried to explain while he pushed down the anger he felt.

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, looking back up at Sherlock with soft eyes. "You're right. You're… absolutely right. I'll try to be more honest with you if you're more honest with me. I still don't think I'm going to give you the whole supply of antidepressants though. It doesn't make sense to do that, anyway. I'll give you enough to last three days but… after three days, ask me for them, all right, Sherlock?"

The detective had calmed down considerably as he thought about John's proposition. He had claimed fault without really telling Sherlock he had been in the wrong as well, which somehow fed Sherlock's ego. He relaxed a bit and nodded in answer.

"Good," John nodded. He smiled up at Sherlock and leaned up on his toes before he kissed his jaw gently. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock took John's face in his hands before he kissed his lips and then wrapped his arms around him. "I love you too, John." After a while in the embrace, he added, "I know I can be difficult and hard-headed, and I know it's unfair of me to ask, but please… don't ever leave me."

John hugged him tightly back, breathing in his scent of cigarettes and coffee. "I won't if you don't leave me either…"

Sherlock chuckled softly into John's shoulder and then gently pressed his lips against the doctor's neck. "Deal…"


	12. Hope

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, **Ayno23**! I like hearing your input. Gives me ideas where I should go with my story =) You're an awesome person and a great writer! Never stop reviewing!

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Hope

.o.o.

.o.

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_Sometimes I feel so sad_

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_But mostly you just make me mad_

_Baby you just make me mad_

_Linger on, your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on, your pale blue eyes_

The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

The days passed in a blur for Sherlock Holmes. There had been times, much to John's worry, that the consulting detective couldn't remember. Apparently the doctor had been talking to him for nearly two hours, clients had come and went, and Sherlock couldn't remember any of it. True, it wasn't out of the ordinary for Sherlock to forget chunks of time and the events that occurred but it seemed to be getting out of control.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John's concerned eyes staring at him. He winced a bit and then looked around in confusion where he lay on the couch. Usually, John's worried stare annoyed him but he had more pressing matters than that at the moment.

"What time is it?"

John searched his companion's face. "It's nearly half six. Isn't Mycroft supposed to come to talk with you about your depression and such?"

Sherlock thought for a moment and shook his head. "No, of course not. It's not Friday yet…"

The doctor straightened up, swallowing hard. "What day do you think it is, Sherlock?"

"It's… it's Thursday, isn't it? Yesterday was Wednesday."

John shook his head in disagreement. "No, it's not. It's Friday evening. Your brother's coming today. I'm getting worried about you, Sherlock, more so than usual. You usually talk for days on end, even after I've left the flat, but you haven't said a single word since Wednesday night. Is it your depression? Is that why you're so quiet?"

Sherlock put his hands in front of his chest, just touching his chin, holding them together in a praying motion. A part of him felt embarrassed but another part of him felt like this just couldn't be true. He tried to think of the last thing he had said to John, and he only came up with _"deal," _when they had been discussing about each other never leaving the other.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Maybe you're just not around when I've been talking. I know what day it is, by the way. You're just putting me on. It's Thursday; I _know _it is! You can drop this joke because it's simply not amusing," Sherlock scowled.

John sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I agree, it's not amusing. I promise you though, I'm not putting you on. It's really Friday. After your brother talks to you, I'd like to take you into Bart's for testing. Maybe it's the medication that's causing you to lose track of time."

Sherlock sat upright now and turned to look at him. "Everyone loses track of time, John. It's nothing serious. I don't have a brain injury or anything of that sort. I just simply forgot what day it is. It happens…"

John shook his head and smiled with humor. "No, not with Sherlock Holmes, it doesn't! You have every fact under the sun memorized and you _never _forget what day it is, whether you deduce it from noises out on the street or the candles Mrs Hudson burns! You always know what day it is, and what time it is, _exactly. _It's not like you to forget these things. You lose whole blocks of time as well! Not just hours or minutes. You're losing _days_, Sherlock… this is something we need to look into."

The detective sighed heavily in annoyance and pursed his lips just as the doorbell rang. "That must be Mycroft. Would you mind disappearing for a couple hours, John?"

The doctor looked almost hurt at first but then nodded reluctantly. "Right, okay then. I'll leave you two to talk. I have errands I can run. If you need anything, send me a text. I'll have my phone on me."

Sherlock nodded once and then watched as he grabbed his coat on and then opened the door, welcoming Mycroft in before saying his goodbyes and disappearing from sight. He stood up now gave a curt nod to Mycroft.

"Have a seat. I'll make us some tea."

"As you wish," he walked over to John's armchair and sat down in it before he crossed a leg over to rest on the other one. "How have you been since the last time we talked two days ago?"

Sherlock remained quiet as he dropped teabags into two cups and watched the flames flicker underneath the kettle. "Never better. And yourself? Have you overthrown any tyrannical governments or caught any more terrorists?"

Mycroft chuckled softly. "The criminal world's been somewhat quiet this week. I suspect there's some planning going on but no one knows anything to speak of."

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the mugs before steeping them and putting sugar in his brother's cup. He walked over and gave Mycroft his cup and saucer before sitting in his usual chair across from him. He took a sip of his tea and set it down on the nearby table before casting his eyes towards the fireplace. John must have built a fire earlier.

Funny, he didn't remember that either.

"Tell me truthfully, Sherlock. How are you?" Mycroft looked at his younger brother with analytical eyes.

"I told you, Mycroft. I've never been better. I'm fine," he replied tartly, not taking his eyes off the flames.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea before he also placed it on his table next to the chair. "I may not live with you anymore but I'm still your brother and I can tell when you're lying. You really do give so much away. Stop wasting my time, Sherlock. You wanted to talk; let's talk."

The detective chewed on his lower lip and finally forced himself to look at Mycroft. He was quiet for several moments, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair restlessly. "Well, I'm on day… two, I believe, of taking my new antidepressants. Not as nauseous, still feeling slightly fatigued. Oh, and I've started to black out days."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise and leaned forward to rest on his knee, searching Sherlock's face for answers. "I'm sorry? You've started to… black out days? How do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean," Sherlock started, already becoming impatient with his brother. "I'm losing track of huge amounts of time. I thought it was Thursday today. John so kindly pointed out that it's very unlike me to forget what day it is, nonetheless the time. What do you make of this?"

Mycroft sat upright again and scrunched his face up in thought. "It is, indeed, puzzling. Could it be an effect from your antidepressants?"

"I'm not sure. John wants me to get testing done at St. Bart's hospital to see if my memory loss and the new medication could be related…"

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement. "That's certainly a good idea. I would have to agree with John. He _is _the doctor, after all. How much sleep are you getting, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and shrugged, shaking his head. "Little to none. If I sleep, I don't remember sleeping. I usually never sleep though. I'm usually always awake at night. That's just how I've always been."

"Oh, well I beg to differ. You seemed to sleep just fine when we were children. In fact, your insomnia only started in your teenage years, if I recall correctly," Mycroft remarked. "I honestly don't understand how you can function properly without sleep. I always thought a person could die of insomnia. Does John know about that?"

"Maybe I do sleep. I really don't know, Mycroft," Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Like I said, if I do take intermittent naps, then I don't remember them. John knows I'm awake at night."

Mycroft gave his younger brother an interested look. It was a puzzle and being a Holmes brother, he liked to solve puzzles, just as much as Sherlock did. "I see. Are you… taking any recreational drugs alongside your antidepressants?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's suggestion and lolled his head to the side before looking back at him. "No, Mycroft. I'm not getting high. For God's sake… I haven't used in months. I wish I was high, though. Maybe I'd be able to get some sleep if that were the case."

"Sherlock," his older brother warned.

"Kidding!" Sherlock put his hands up.

Mycroft sighed but it was obvious he was still trying to come up with possibilities for Sherlock's blackouts. "Honestly, dear brother, I cannot think of any other reason for your time lapse. I would have to conclude that the cause of it is either the new antidepressants or… your depression."

"Thank you, _dear brother. _As always, you've been such a fantastic help," Sherlock replied bitterly. He suddenly let out a yell of anguish. "_God_! What good are you?!"

Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise and he blinked, his mouth agape. Finally, he found his words. "Excuse me, Sherlock, but I'm not your doctor or psychiatrist! I'm part of the British government! I find assassins, trained killers, terrorists, threats to the country. I'm not licensed or trained to diagnose every little problem that goes on in your brilliant brain!"

Sherlock knew he was being unfair to Mycroft but he felt angry and frustrated. "In case you've forgotten, this isn't a 'little problem!' This is my memory! I'm losing _days_, Mycroft! Not just minutes or hours. What if I lose my entire memory altogether? I'll be no use to anyone! Not even John."

"Ah, yes. Everything comes down to John Watson, doesn't it? Sherlock, it occurs to me that you have a Mind Palace that you place facts and people in, correct?" When his brother nodded, Mycroft continued. "Right then, why don't you try taking walks around in this… Palace of yours? Walk around in it every day, mark the day and time before you do it, and then afterwards. I'm not all that familiar with your Mind Palace, but I believe it might aid you in remembering the days."

Sherlock pondered Mycroft's suggestion and seeing no fault in it, he calmed himself down. "Very well. I'll try this experiment tonight after you leave and see if it works." Then, after several minutes of silence between the two brothers, he added, "T-Thank you."

The prolonged gratitude after all the silence took Mycroft aback. "I'm sorry? For what?"

"For… your suggestion."

Mycroft smirked ever so slightly. "My God, you must be ill if you're thanking me. In any case, consider yourself welcome. Are you planning on going to St. Bart's soon and getting the tests done?"

Sherlock considered the question, chewing on his bottom lip anxiously. "Possibly. I know that I won't have any say in the matter if John has his way. It might not be such a horrible idea anyway. At least then we'll all known for sure what's causing it."

"I agree. I think it is a good idea. It wouldn't hurt, anyway. Are you still having your… thoughts?" Mycroft asked, obviously feeling a bit uncomfortable.

Sherlock didn't even have to ask what he meant by 'thoughts.' He wouldn't ask about any other thoughts his brother had. "I've only started taking the new medication a day ago. I'm on my second day on them and the average time it kicks in is anywhere from one to three weeks."

"That's not what I asked," Mycroft replied almost icily.

The detective wasn't sure what to say. If he was having suicidal thoughts, he might not be remembering them. The very notion that he could forget about them in the first place was beyond him but then again, he never thought he'd forget what day it was either. "No. I haven't had them."

Mycroft nodded optimistically and smiled a small smile. "That's good then!"

"I wouldn't get too excited, Mycroft. Just because I haven't had the thoughts in two days doesn't mean they won't return…"

"Interesting. You talk as if you want the thoughts to return, as if you do not wish to get better…" Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock met his eyes with cold ones. "I don't know what you're talking about. Of course I want to get better. I don't want to feel this miserable for no reason whatsoever. I don't want John to have to see me lying around, being painfully unproductive. I'm not sure how much more idleness he can stand."

The light lit up in Mycroft's eyes now. "Haven't you gotten any cases recently?"

Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly. "Only menial ones, nothing more than a two or three. I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. I was hoping for a decent case that could help distract me from this… misery, something to excite John again, like the old days. I would even welcome Moriarty at this point."

Mycroft took another drink of his tea. "I wouldn't fret, dear brother mine. I have confidence you'll receive a lively case soon. In the meantime, do try and take it easy." He stood up now, straightening his tux. "Oh, and try and remember to do the exercise I told you about earlier."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You're leaving? You've only been here for maybe forty-five minutes."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow again at his younger sibling. "And…?"

"And you told me you were free until eight. I have at least two more hours to talk."

His brother let out a low, cold chuckle before walking towards the front door. "As I've reminded you several times, Sherlock. I'm not a psychiatrist and you're not paying me to stay the whole time. Even if you were paying me, I wouldn't stay. I have other matters to attend to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be off. Good evening, Sherlock."

The younger man watched as his brother left and left in alone. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands before he sucked in a breath and then straightened up again. He glanced over at the clock and observed the time was seven-oh-five.

He closed his eyes and started walking through his Mind Palace. Sherlock opened all the doors on all four floors, walking into visual how-to manuals, species of animals, history from long ago, chemicals found in nearly everything that contained atoms, books and authors, all the roads in London, including shortcuts, and common food allergies.

He walked through corridors before getting to other rooms that held information he had memorized like hotwiring a car, defusing and creating bombs, and classical music. He walked through all these rooms, making sure everything was in its place and nothing was missing before he finally opened his eyes. When he looked back at the clock again, he made a mental note that it was seven-thirty.

"Oh good, you're back. How did it go with Mycroft then?" a familiar voice asked him.

Sherlock looked over to see John. "It was… helpful, actually. What did you mean when you said I was 'back?'"

John walked over to him, seemingly out of breath. He must have gotten groceries and been forced to climb up the staircase. "O-Oh, umm… well, I know that when you're… like how you were, you're usually in your… Mind Palace thing. Do you remember going there?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at him curiously. "Mycroft believes my blackouts are either caused by the depression or the medication. Could it be the antidepressants causing me to forget days?"

John sat down in his armchair, seeing how concerned the detective was. "I'm not sure. It's possible, I suppose. Perhaps a rare side effect from it. When you usually have your depression, do you forget days? I mean, before you were put on antidepressants. Did you forget whole days?"

Sherlock thought for a split second and then shook his head. "No. I didn't forget anything."

"Ah, right. Well, then it could just be the antidepressants. Maybe… we could do the testing tomorrow morning and if it turns out that it is them causing it, we could find you different ones. How does that sound?"

The idea of hopping from one antidepressant to the next without any luck and only horrible side effects depressed Sherlock even more, except it was about to come out in anger instead of sorrow. He clenched his jaw and then stood up before he began to pace.

"I'm sick of this! I'm sick of taking medications that only make me feel worse! They're useless!" he yelled as he continued to pace.

John didn't seem surprised at the younger man's sudden outburst but his eyes showed disapproval. "Sherlock, just… calm down. We'll find the right one for you eventually."

"_Eventually_?" Sherlock snarled. "I don't have eventually! What do I do once we get cases? Peoples' lives will be on the line and if I can't even get out of bed, then what good am I? This is ridiculous, John! I don't have time to wait!"

John looked up at Sherlock now. "Oh really? You don't have time? What are you planning on doing, Sherlock? Tell me, should I be worried about this?"

"I don't know, John! I don't know. I'm losing days in my memory! Maybe I'll kill myself and I won't even be around to remember doing it! What if I try to off myself in one of my blackouts? Now do you see how serious the situation is?" Sherlock remarked coldly.

John stood up and searched Sherlock's eyes. "I never said the situation wasn't serious! I know how serious this is, Sherlock! You don't see me dancing around and having a good laugh about your blacking out and your depression, do you? You don't even know how serious this is for me!"

Sherlock looked over at him, cocking head slightly. "What are you talking about?"

The doctor let out a huff of air before putting his hands on his hips, his own frustration biting back now. "I mean… with how you are! Half the time I'm afraid to leave you alone because I don't know if I'm going to come home to find that you've slit your wrists or… hanged yourself! I don't know what I'm going to come home to, and that scares me, Sherlock! Do you… have any idea at all how your illness affects _me_?"

"That's right, John! Go ahead! Make this all about you because God knows that's what you always do anyway! The second there's an issue with me, you somehow turn it around to make this about you! Go ahead, John! Tell me. Tell me how _my _illness affects _you_!"

The doctor tongued his cheek before he shook his head. "No. No… I'm not going to do that, actually. I don't want to do this, Sherlock! I don't want to fight with you! I just want to help you any way that I can."

Sherlock was so angry that he felt hot tears prickling his eyes. He pushed them back as he also pushed down the urge to hit something. He didn't deserve John. All he did was make his life a living hell. That's what the doctor was going to say to him; he knew it. It had to be. "You just want to leave! You're sick of looking at me every day, lying around! You're sick of making sure I take the medication and making sure that I shower and eat!"

John shook his head but then stopped it midway before he took a deep breath before he put his fingers on the bridge of his nose. When he didn't say anything, Sherlock nodded and continued.

"Go ahead, John. Say it! You know it's true! You know that you've grown tired of taking care of me for worse, in sickness! Just tell the truth! You're sick of me!" Sherlock nearly screamed, tears forcefully making trails down his pale face.

"No, no… that's not true! I'm not sick of you! Just stop this! Stop it, Sherlock!"

The detective shook his head again but his anger was quickly turning into despair and unbelievable sadness as he took a step away from John, towards the kitchen. He continued backing up, unsure what all these feelings were that had begun to hit him at once. He never felt feelings before. Maybe the medications were making him into something more human, less of a mechanical cold machine. Could they do that?

"You don't want to be here anymore," Sherlock cried suddenly. "You don't love me and I don't deserve you! That's the worst part in this whole situation is that I don't even deserve you, John!" He wiped away the tears on his face with his hands and sniffled, his chest feeling tight. "You… y-you don't want to d-deal with me anymore! Y-You're only going to leave me a-anyway…" he gasped for air, feeling like his lungs had been punctured.

"Sherlock…" John hurried over to him and watched as Sherlock started to hyperventilate. His skin had grown paler and he was still gasping for air. "Shhh… shh…. You need to try and calm down, Sherlock… you're having a panic attack. Breathe…"

The younger detective shook his head as he collapsed against the wall, grabbing at the closest thing to keep him from falling which, incidentally, ending up being John. "I-I can't… I can't, J-John… I can't b-breathe…"

He saw the room spinning around him and he closed his eyes to try and concentrate.

John gently massaged Sherlock's broad shoulder that was closest to him before moving his hand to his back, soothingly caressing it. "Shhh…. Breathe, Sherlock! In through your nose slowly, out through your mouth. Can you do that for me?"

The detective nodded, desperate to be able to breathe again. He inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled again through his mouth. He did this four times before he found that oxygen was beginning to come back to him more easily.

John smiled now, relaxing. "Good… that's it. See? You're able to breathe again. You just needed to relax. You're okay, and I'm not going anywhere. You make me so… furious sometimes but I'm not leaving you, Sherlock. I already promised you I wasn't going to, and I wasn't lying."

Sherlock nodded feebly in understanding as he continued to do the breathing exercise, still feeling lightheaded but relieved once the room stopped spinning. "I'm sorry…John…"

The doctor gave him a small smile and then leaned in, kissing his temple softly and lingering there. "Don't worry about it. I know you're beyond frustrated but we're going to do the testing tomorrow and we'll know if the antidepressants are the cause. I have a feeling they are but at least the tests can confirm it for us. Then we'll talk about other options if you want. It's going to be all right. Yes, I get frustrated sometimes with your depression, but… not with you."

Sherlock nodded again but didn't feeling entirely convinced. To avoid further arguments in his physical and mentally exhausted state, however, he decided to give John the benefit of the doubt this time. The two men stayed there until the younger man was able to walk into the bedroom.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep. I haven't gotten much sleep. I never sleep," Sherlock corrected his statements with each pause, whispering to John in the dark.

John gently caressed Sherlock's sweat-matted curls. "I know. I know you don't. We'll fix that tomorrow as well. Just close your eyes and try to relax. We'll figure everything out tomorrow."

The promise in John's voice gave Sherlock hope, and hope was what he needed more than anything. He needed to believe that things could get better. He needed to believe the memory lapsing was only temporary.

He needed to believe he could have control of his depression, even if he didn't have control over anything else.


	13. Personality Development

Chapter Thirteen: Personality Development

.o.o.

.o.

_Press my nose up, to the glass around your heart_

_I should've known I was weaker from the start,_

_You'll build your walls and I will play my bloody part_

_To tear, tear them down,_

_Well I'm gonna tear, tear them down_

Mumford & Sons - Babel

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock flinched slightly when John stuck the needle into his companion's forearm and let the syringe fill up with his blood before he pulled it out.

"Sorry, Sherlock… didn't mean to hurt you…"

The detective shook his head and sighed softly. "I know. It's just something that needs to be done." When John smiled weakly at him, he felt his heart skip a beat. The two men were silent for a long time as they waited for Molly to enter the lab. "If you're going to leave me, I-I'd prefer if you got it over and done with."

John looked up at him, surprised, his eyes widened. "W-What…? I'm not… going to leave you, Sherlock. Why would you say something like that?"

The question made the detective feel slightly guilty but he forced himself to look at John. "I'm not getting better, John. I feel like I'm just getting worse. I'm losing days off my life that I can't remember and it's becoming too much for you. I can see it written on your face whenever I look at you. It's becoming too much and you're contemplating leaving because you can't handle it."

John shook his head before he placed his hand on Sherlock's chest. "No, please don't say those things. You're going to give yourself another panic attack…"

Sherlock placed his own hand over the one that was already on his chest. "Then tell me it isn't true and don't lie to me. Tell me that you never think about how life would be without having to deal with all my mental instabilities."

The doctor gave him a sad, disappointed look before he wet his lips and then glanced off to the side before looking back at Sherlock. "Yes, I do sometimes ponder about what life would be like if you were not plagued by these things, but I already know how it would be, Sherlock. My life would be empty without you and I'm at least ninety-nine percent sure that I'd be dead. I contemplate what life would be like but I love you and that means loving you no matter what, even when things get bad. You have a mental illness but that doesn't change how I feel about you."

Sherlock gave him an unsure look, as if he didn't fully believe him but said nothing else as Molly Hooper appeared inside the Pathology lab. She gave the two of them a polite smile and tied her hair up into a high ponytail before looking at John.

"What are we doing today, then?"

John handed her the syringe. "We need you to do some testing on this blood sample. Sherlock's having memory issues and we're concerned that the antidepressants are to blame for it. Can you do that?"

She carefully took the syringe with gloved hands and nodded. "Yeah, of course. I'll run the blood through the proper tests and do some research. We're sort of backed up today though; the test results might not come in for a couple days…"

Sherlock looked over at her with an impatient expression. "Is there any way you could perhaps get the results to me a bit sooner, Molly? I'd be willing to do you any favor that you request of me if you could rush the tests just a bit."

The offer took the young woman back and she looked at him with confusion in her eyes. "Favor? What… could I possibly ask you to do…?"

"Now come on, Molly; you and I both know that there's a special person in your life that's harassing you. You want him gone, I can make him leave," he replied, matter-of-factly.

Her expression softened into slight surprise but he could tell she was trying not to give herself away. "I'm sorry? I don't understand…"

Sherlock scoffed impatiently now. "You've gained about five pounds since the last time I saw you, which tells me that you're trying to gain weight in hopes of deterring a man from finding you attractive. You've also not bothered to wash your hair this morning by the small amount of grease in it, you have a small bout of acne that you haven't even bothered to cover up with makeup. You're also not wearing any lipstick like you usually do. By the dark circles under your eyes, you haven't properly slept in almost a week because this man has made you feel uncomfortable, possibly even crossed a line you hadn't want to be crossed," he ran off, not missing a beat. "In conclusion, there's someone harassing you that you're not attracted to and you want him to leave you alone. Now, as I've said, if you'll speed up this testing process and text me the results, then I'll do you a favor and help you get rid of this parasite."

John looked at Sherlock with his mouth agape before glancing over at a clearly uncomfortable Molly Hooper, who looked at the detective with her own mouth open. She blinked a few times before forcing herself to close it and then gave a curt, agreeable nod to Sherlock before she walked over to another part of the lab.

John looked at him. "Was it really necessary to point out all her flaws that she probably didn't need pointing out?"

Sherlock looked at him with crestfallen eyes. "Not good?"

John nodded. "A bit not good, yeah. You could've just told her you'd do her the favor. In fact, you would've done her a favor by not explaining how you came up with that deduction about the bloke she didn't want to see."

"Well, I'm sorry, John but it's done with so all we can do now is move on. She's doing the tests. Let's just go back home…"

John noticed the slight change in his companion's demeanor and felt helpless. "You're feeling it again, aren't you? Depressed." It was more of a statement than an actual question.

"Yes, John. I believe I am…" he reluctantly answered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Alright, then let's go back home while we wait for her to text you back the results. We'll keep you occupied in the meantime," John took Sherlock's hand and walked him out of the lab and soon out of the hospital.

They hailed a cab, taking it back to Baker Street. John was about to let go of Sherlock's hand when he felt the detective's grip tighten a bit more instead of letting go as well. He kept his hand in Sherlock's, not saying a word until they made it upstairs to their flat. By this time, out of the corner of his eyes, he could see tears making trails down Sherlock's face.

"It's all right, mate. We're here now, we're home," John cooed soothingly, gently squeezing his companion's hand before leading him inside their flat and closing the door.

Once John turned to face Sherlock and saw the detective turning his head away to hide the tears that were streaming down his face silently, the doctor sighed to himself and reached up before he gently thumbed the saltwater droplets off the younger man's face before smiling lovingly.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to cough nonchalantly. "I-I'm sorry, John. I don't… normally do this and I really didn't want to cry in front of you…" He remembered crying in front of John on another occasion recently but that somehow seemed different. They were together in the bedroom and John had only listened to his sobs; he hadn't actually seen his tears.

John shook his head sadly and took his hand before he lead him into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door, though. He looked up at the slender man standing in front of him and then leaned in, pressing his lips against the detective's.

When they casually pulled away, they both gently rested their foreheads against the other's and John placed is hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, letting his fingers caress the skin there. The two men were silent as they listened and attempted to match each other's breathing pattern.

Finally, John opened his mouth to speak but kept his voice low, as if speaking in a normal tone would ruin the moment. "What do you want to do, love? We can go anywhere and do anything you want. What do you think would help you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as a stray tear escaped his eyes and fell quickly. He wiped it away with his fingers and swallowed hard. "I… I don't k-know…"

John Watson searched Sherlock's face as the English rain fell hard against the window of his bedroom. He gently lifted up his chin and started to kiss him passionately, determined to make the younger man see how much he loved him and try to convince him that he wasn't going to leave him. It seemed vital that Sherlock knew this right now more than ever.

This sudden passion surprised him at first but the detective met John's passionate kisses with his own, running his fingers lovingly through the doctor's hair. He seemed to forget himself as they let their tongues dance their waltz once again and Sherlock gently pushed him against the wall, letting his fingers slip under John's shirt before he tugged it upstairs and threw it away from them onto the floor.

John did the same with Sherlock's shirt and the two men stood in front of each other with only their trousers on. Out of breath now and panting, Sherlock let his fingers trail over John's battle scars on his back and shoulders, feeling the rough, uneven skin as it slid under the pads of his fingers.

This felt real. _This was real_, Sherlock told himself. If he felt lost and unsure about his life and where it was going, feeling the skin that belonged to the only man he loved and cared for so dearly somehow helped him stay focused on the present and didn't disconnect from anything like he usually did. His emotions seemed almost euphoric and colors seemed brighter. Even in the dim lighting of the room, John's eyes looked hazel with chocolate flakes in them. He didn't know how this was but he didn't want this to end. He forced himself to forget everything else in this moment and stay with John.

"W-What are you thinking about, Sherlock?" John panted, smirking at him curiously.

Sherlock's chest heaved as he tried to slow his heart rate but to no avail. "Honestly, only you, John Watson. I think I need my doctor, though; my heart won't stop racing."

John's smirk turned into the brightest smile Sherlock had ever seen and then he playfully pushed Sherlock onto the bed before kissing him harder. "You're such a bloody wanker, Sherlock!"

The detective didn't think it was possible for him in his current state but a laugh escaped his lips and he also smiled in the kiss. "Maybe, but I'm a wanker who's madly in love with his doctor. Surely you can't fault me for that."

John chuckled and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls before he planted soft kisses on his neck. He made sure Sherlock was comfortably lying down before he grabbed a sheet and threw it over top of him before sitting on the detective. "I suppose I can't, but the least I can do to show you how much I love you, _detective._"

"Consulting… detective. I believe you forgot the 'consulting' part," Sherlock jibbed teasingly, watching John as he started planning kisses on his bare chest.

John gently bit down on his skin but not enough to be painful. He looked up at Sherlock. "Shut up, Sherlock, or I'll make you shut up."

The younger man raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Oh, is that so, doctor? I don't believe you will…"

John shook his head before he threw the sheet over himself so Sherlock could no longer see him but only see a lump that was slowly making its way downwards on his body. He moaned aloud and then relaxed before John started to prove him wrong.

* * *

Sherlock was letting his fingers trace the edges of John's shoulders and the crevices of his biceps after their rump, John's body fitting so perfectly against his own as he half-sat, half lay in the bed, John doing the same with his back pressed against him.

The sadness had, for the most part, disappeared but there were still small amounts of it still swimming inside his brain. It seemed as if the depression had refused to fully depart and he was already tired of taking the antidepressants. He was broken from his thoughts when he heard the chime of his phone. He glanced down at John who had fallen asleep and reached over carefully to grab his phone from off the bedside table.

_1 Missed Message From Mycroft Holmes._

Sherlock resisted from letting out an audible scoff as he opened the message.

_Have you gotten the test results back yet? – M_

This time, Sherlock sighed aloud. His brother wasn't an idiot; he knew his younger brother wouldn't be getting them back in the same day, regardless that he had bribed Molly to rush them. It didn't make a difference. Even if it was the antidepressants, which it most likely was, Sherlock would still have to get placed on new ones.

He reluctantly forced his fingers to text back:

_Of course I didn't. I should know the results either later this evening or tomorrow. Why are you asking me about my test results, Mycroft? You don't care about them. What did you actually wish to discuss?_

After hitting send, Sherlock gently caressed John's hair and nearly flinched when he saw the doctor move his neck and groan. He sat up before he moved his body to lay on his stomach, looking at Sherlock with lovingly, curious eyes.

"What does your brother want?"

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. "How did you know it was my brother texting me?"

John smiled in satisfaction and then wet his lips. "I know that sigh, Sherlock. That sigh tells me it was someone you dislike but also can't ignore. The only reasonable answer was that it was Mycroft."

Sherlock sat up straighter, smirking. "It could have been Molly Hooper… I dislike her."

John shook his head before playfully narrowing his eyes. "You don't dislike her, Sherlock. You consider her a friend, especially after all she's done for you. She fancies you, and you've grown to not despise her, which… I believe in Sherlock terms would mean that she's your friend. Besides, you would ignore her messages. You can't ignore your brother's, not even legally."

Sherlock gave a single nod in admiration. "Excellent deduction skills, doctor."

"I suppose you rubbed off on me. You've taught me a lot…"

"As have you with me," Sherlock admitted just as his phone chimed again, almost with the same insistence and annoyance as his brother. How appropriate. He opened the message up to read it.

_Let's meet up for tea tomorrow at Speedy's. We should talk about yourself. – M_

"It appears my brother might actually care about my well-being. Either that, or he needs a favor from me. I'm always on my guard when he talks about meeting up to talk," Sherlock confessed before he typed a quick response back and then hit send.

John sat up, the sheet wrapped around his waist. "Do you really think Molly will rush the tests for you? You did treat her pretty unkindly earlier." He gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged. "I don't know. She seems abnormally desperate to rid this vexation from her life. I have confidence I'll receive the results in a few hours this evening. She needs my help and I promised to help her. Shouldn't a man stick to his word?"

John half smiled, half smirked before he moved in to sit beside Sherlock, resting his head on the man's shoulder. "He should… but you should help her even if she doesn't give you the results tonight. This bloke seems like he could be trouble, which by the way reminds me; what _exactly _are you planning on doing to rid her of him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Never you mind, John. That's for me to know and no one to ever find out."

John's smile vanished and he straightened up, looking suspiciously at Sherlock. "Wait a minute. You're not going to injure this guy, are you, Sherlock? Or… poison him with anything?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm only going to make sure he leaves her alone, permanently," Sherlock replied in a near-whisper.

"_Sherlock_," John spoke in a warning tone now. "I can't believe this. You never act so territorial or defensive in Molly's favor… you're acting almost…." John trailed off.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the side, furrowing his eyebrows. "Almost what?"

A smile of realization came across John's face now. "You're acting almost brotherly! You're acting like her big brother. It makes sense! You think of her as a little annoying sister you never had and you feel the need to protect her! You were going to help her even if she didn't have the results back as fast as you wanted them! Oh my god…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh shut up, John. Don't attempt to analyze me; it's really not your forte."

John could hear the edge to Sherlock's voice but he could also tell that the detective was only pretending to be angry or upset. He only disapproved of John having figured out the secret on his own. "This is a big improvement for you, Sherlock. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock grabbed his pillow now and hit John in the face with it before he threw it and then suddenly laughed, looking off to the side. He wasn't even sure why he was laughing, which scared him for a moment. He then realized it was because everything John had told Sherlock about his personality had been right and John was right again; this was an improvement. He had never before considered Molly to be any type of person other than a simple-minded girl who worked at a Pathology lab at St. Bart's hospital and over time he had developed some type of relationship with her.

He really was feeling protective over her and the thought of some random arsehole harassing her had started to grind at Sherlock. "Damn it, John. I do hate it when you're right."

The doctor moved over to him and kissed Sherlock's temple before he lay behind him and played with his curls. "I know you do. It's all right, though. I still love you."

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

The two men had fallen asleep when there was another annoying chime that echoed in Sherlock's eardrum. He reluctantly woke up, surprised that it was nearly 11:30pm and the new message had come from Molly; she had stuck to her word.

He opened up the message to read it, blinking a few times to get rid of the grogginess he was feeling.

_Sherlock, the antidepressants you're taking proved negative for your memory loss. I've talked to several doctors and psychologists and they all believe the memory loss could be from a repressed memory of your past or it could simply be a side-symptom of your depression. I lean more towards the former suggestion, though. Anyway, let me know if you need anything else. – Molly_

Sherlock thought for a few minutes. What kind of repressed memory from his past? He memorized nearly his entire childhood since he was five years old. He couldn't think of anything particularly traumatizing that happened but then again, it would be repressed for a reason. He might've not been able to think of a memory if he was still repressing it. He shook that option out of his head.

Had anyone ever had memory loss, blackouts in particular, when it came to depression? He honestly didn't know and he didn't want to wake up John just to ask this question. It didn't seem like a dire need-to-know thing. It could wait for the morning.

As these things passed through Sherlock's brain, he realized he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again. He carefully rolled John over to lay on his side of the bed before he stood up and snuck out of the room and quietly closed the door. He looked down at the message again and decided to type back a response.

_Molly, thank you for the speedy job. It's much appreciated. I'll keep to my word as well and take care of your harasser for you. Just give me the address of where he lives and his full name. – SH_

After he sent it, he walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle, thinking about what he would do to scare off this guy. He seemed like the average creep, no real huge threat that Sherlock couldn't handle. What he really felt compelled to do was to strategically place some sharp spikes on the ground and toss the guy outside of his own flat, perhaps four stories up. That would be difficult to explain to Lestrade, however.

When the kettle started to spit out white clouds of steam, Sherlock turned it off and poured the water into his tea cup. He let his thoughts trail off. Maybe he could somehow get this guy arrested and stay out of it; maybe he wouldn't even have to physically confront him.

Molly probably wouldn't be very pleased if she found out Sherlock had nearly killed him. He decided finally that it would probably be best if he just let Scotland Yard arrest him for something. Sure, he seemed like the average creeper but these men had a history. He was bound to have some kind of record.

Sherlock took his cup and then placed it on the coffee table in the living room before laying on his back on the sofa. He closed his eyes and placed his palms together before he took Mycroft's advice and started to walk around his Mind Palace. Perhaps he could find some repressed memories somewhere in the dusty corners of the closets.


	14. A Memory Come To Light

A/N: I'm so glad you're still reading this. And I can't tell you how helpful the feedback and reviews are to me.

So thank you again, and I apologize for the longish wait!

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: A Memory Come To Light

.o.o.

.o.

_I don't know why nobody told you_

_How to unfold your love_

_I don't know how someone controlled you_

_They bought and sold you_

_I look at the world and I notice it's turning_

_While my guitar gently weeps_

_Every mistake, we must surely __be learning_

_Still my guitar gently weeps_

Beatles - While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock yawned before pouring himself a cup of fresh coffee, letting the aroma fill the flat. He hadn't bothered to take his antidepressants and it felt like a dark black cloud was threatening to rain down on him. He felt a little bit better though when he saw a freshly showered John enter the kitchen to retrieve his own coffee.

The two men met the others' eyes and smiled a small, loving smile before Sherlock spoke. "Molly sent me a text last night saying that it wasn't the antidepressants making me have blackouts. It's… something else…"

John cast a worried, unsure glance in the detective's direction now and took a distracted sip of his coffee, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock's. "Did… she say what that 'something else' could be?"

Sherlock sighed and nervously chewed on his bottom lip, not feeling very keen on talking to John about what could turn out to be absolutely nothing or positively everything. He took a long drink of his coffee to buy his time.

"She said something about… repressed memories being the cause of my blacking out or… it could be just a side-symptom from my depression. I suppose she probably meant something along the lines of a post-traumatic stress disorder," he answered quickly.

John's worry creased in his forehead and he cleared his throat, as he did whenever a topic made him feel scared or uncomfortable. "Right… err… do you think you might know what that repressed memory could be, Sherlock?"

The detective gave him a small smirk. "If I knew what it was, it wouldn't be a repressed memory, would it?"

The doctor sighed and gave him a disapproving look. He set his coffee down before he walked closer to Sherlock. "This isn't something to joke around about. This is serious. Maybe if you could find time to stop being such a smart-arse, we could possibly get you on better antidepressants and figure out why you're blacking out. Are you blacking out when I'm asleep too? I mean, do you black out and then… wake up again somewhere else? Like sleepwalking?"

John's irritation made the dark clouds inside Sherlock rise up from within, answering the silent question that told him he couldn't ever say anything right at the right time. His smirk fell from his face and he swallowed hard. No, he didn't want to talk about this right now. Or possibly ever. He consciously moved away from John and leaned against one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table.

"I'm going to go shower and meet Mycroft for breakfast," Sherlock nearly whispered, desperate to change the subject.

John gave him a sideways look. "It's nearly eleven…"

"Fine, then… late breakfast. I need to get some fresh air."

Sherlock had turned around and started heading towards the bathroom when he felt John gently grab his arm, forcing Sherlock to look at him. "Have you taken your antidepressants today? Have you even _eaten_?"

Sherlock ripped his arm unnecessarily out of John's grip and felt anger rise to the surface. "No! I have not! I don't plan to take them or eat either so I would appreciate it if you could quit nagging me and get off my back, John!"

The doctor looked at Sherlock with concern again. "Sherlock, you're just angry because you're depressed and it's frustrating you that we can't find the right medication to help you, but we will. You don't need to take it out on me…" John remarked before adding, "You know as well as I do that it's not fair to either of us."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breaths through his nose to calm his anger so he wouldn't lash out again. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before opening them and forcing himself to look back at John. "I can't do this right now… I'm sorry, and I love you, John but I just can't take the questions and the… concern… not right now. I'm going to get ready and I'm going to go meet my brother. I'll be back soon."

John nodded in defeat and watched as Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom. Once he heard the water turn on, he glanced at the clock on the wall and popped in toast for himself before he cleaned up and took off for the hospital.

When Sherlock came out about ten minutes later, a white towel wrapped around his waist, he glanced around the flat out of habit and ducked into his room to get changed. Somehow, it seemed a lot quieter without John around. He supposed it was because John usually did most of the talking for the both of them. Sherlock grabbed his phone suddenly, getting the urge to make sure John wouldn't be angry at him for the one-sided row earlier.

_I'm sorry, John. Please forgive me. – SH_

He felt reluctant to even apologize but he knew this was what normal couples did after a fight. Once he looked it over a dozen times, he finally hit the send button and set his phone on the bed before he moved over to his closet and picked out clothes to wear.

He was only seeing Mycroft but he didn't want his brother to see what a mental disaster he was. Black dress pants, dress shoes, crimson button down shirt, black dress coat. He had straightened himself out when his phone chirped, demanding his attention.

He picked it up and smirked slightly when he read what John had wrote back:

_It's fine, Sherlock. I understand you're going through a rough period right now. Of course I'm not going to remain angry at you. Be nice to your brother. Or at least nice-ish. Stop in at Bart's when you're done? – JW_

Sherlock quickly texted back that he would and sent it before pocketing his phone and locked up the flat. He had just opened the door when he saw Mycroft standing expectantly outside, smoking a cigarette.

"Have you grown tired of your Diogenes Club at last?" Sherlock chided as he took this opportunity to smoke as well. He took out his own cigarettes and lit the end before taking a drag from it and glancing at his brother.

Mycroft smiled and knocked the ash off before he looked across the street almost with a bored expression. "I thought it might work better for your depressive state if _I _came to _you_ for a change. It would seem as if our meetings are becoming increasingly frequent as of late. If you wish, we could even discuss your blackouts a bit more."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils in frustration. "For God's sake, why can't anyone just let me be alone in peace?"

Mycroft took a short drag before he let the cigarette fall to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe. "If we just let you be, then I fear you would no longer be alive. There's three of us, Sherlock; the chances of at least one of us nagging you to take proper care of yourself are fairly good."

Sherlock said nothing but took another drag, letting the nicotine work its magic to relax him. This time it seemed fruitless. Enjoying a cigarette with Mycroft around was just as pointless as drinking a glass of water in a pool. He finally turned back to his brother. "I don't need any of you nagging me. I literally just had this discussion with John. I can do without all of you being bothersome and boring. Anyway, I don't wish to discuss anything relating to me, if it's all the same to you."

Mycroft waited until his younger brother finished off his cigarette before he turned his entire body to face him. "Sherlock, we need to talk about many things – "

Sherlock scrunched up his face. " – P_lease _do tell me the next words out of your mouth isn't going to be 'of cabbages and kings.'"

Mycroft's eyes darkened now. "Stop acting like a juvenile and sit down at a table inside Speedy's before I take you to the hospital myself."

Sherlock looked almost challengingly at his older brother but felt too mentally exhausted and depressed to fight him anymore. He opened the door to the café and sat down at a table as he waited for Mycroft who had ordered them their late breakfast, early lunch.

He took a glance out the window and nearly cringed when it started to rain outside. After living in the area for so long, he knew he should be used to the rain but that didn't mean he had to like it. A part of him just wanted to just let it drown him, fill his lungs with water until he couldn't breathe. It almost seemed tempting enough; his thoughts trailed off to what it would be like to throw himself into the Thames, but he quickly banished those thoughts from his mind when Mycroft came back with two teas and two small lettuce and tomato sandwiches.

The sight of the sandwiches nearly turned Sherlock's stomach. He pushed the small ceramic plate away from him before he looked up to hear Mycroft sighing.

"You need to eat, Sherlock. I'm not fooling around with you anymore. If you do not eat, you will die. Is that what you what?"

Sherlock searched his face. "Stop asking me obvious questions that you already know the answers to, and ask the questions you don't know the answers to. I haven't got all day. So far, as far as I'm concerned, you're just wasting my time."

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and then leaned forward to avoid other tables hearing their conversation, perhaps out of embarrassment for his younger, mentally-ill brother. "Okay, dear brother, let's start with this one: What did Molly Hooper say about the blood and antidepressants results? Are your blackouts being caused by them?"

"No, they're not," Sherlock replied curtly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, waiting for the younger man to continue. "Well…? What is, then?"

Sherlock half shrugged and shook his head. "It's psychological. It's most likely from my depression. I doubt it's from any… repressed memories or whatever."

His brother straightened in his chair now. "Are you quite sure about that, Sherlock? Perhaps you should talk to a professional. It's truly surprising what some people remember under certain circumstances."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and tilted his head slightly to the side. "Do you know something I don't, Mycroft? Is there anything you'd like to share with your only brother?"

Mycroft's eyes looked conflicted for several moments before he laced his hands together. "Sherlock, what do you remember about… about our father?"

The younger man felt a certain panic fill his chest now, a panic that somehow was so foreign yet familiar at the same time. He had felt this panic before. He only remembered certain things about their father, like shards of glass. They were things that had only been told to him, though. That wasn't to say that he didn't remember his father, however.

"I know that our father was an alcoholic and that… h-he hurt our mother. I know that…" he trailed off, trying to rack his brain for memories. "He sometimes let me show him various experiments. It's been years, Mycroft. Do you honestly expect me to know every single detail about our childhood?"

Mycroft blinked a couple times and swallowed hard, looking a bit nervous. He sighed and as he did so, his shoulders slumped, almost in disappointment. "That is, indeed, interesting. I'm surprised you don't remember the root cause of your suicide attempts as well as your excessive drug use."

Sherlock glanced off to the side, unsurprised his brother knew about the attempts and could only guess who had told him; Lestrade. Of course it had been him. He was the worse at keeping secrets that involved Sherlock from his own brother. He felt uneasy and the panic he felt was building up.

"You can skip the theatrics anytime now, Mycroft. Whatever he did, is in the past and there's no changing it. Anyway, he's dead, so what difference does it make?"

Mycroft wet his lips and looked around the café a bit uneasily as he shifted himself in his chair. "Sherlock, I shouldn't be telling you this but I'm all too aware that you won't see a psychiatrist so alas, I'm left with helping you solve the greatest puzzle of them all."

"Puzzle? What puzzle? Repressed memories are not… puzzles, Mycroft. They're just that, memories. Anyway, you appear to be holding back information that could be useful in my remembering this. Please, do fill me in," Sherlock encouraged semi-coldly.

Mycroft was silent for a long time before he leaned forward again. "You are correct in your deduction that our father hurt our mother, but he also hurt you. He came home very heavily intoxicated most nights and he would physically hurt you. Sometimes… it was so bad that you had to be taken to hospital by mum, and she had to lie to the doctors. However, Sherlock, I must confess; this isn't just about father. This also involves his friend, the friend who always came to backyard gatherings and get-togethers, as well as… baby-sat us from time to time." He paused to gage his brother's reaction but when he saw the confusion, he continued.

"Trust me when I say that I am most uncomfortable telling this to you, mostly because of how unsettling it is and… how angry it made me when I found out. This man, our father's good friend, would…" Mycroft paused, trying to find the right words that wouldn't sound ridiculous but the whole situation had been ridiculous as well as incredulous in itself. It seemed impossible to find the right words. "He would inappropriately touch you, Sherlock. Every time he came over to our house, he would… get you alone somehow and he took advantage of you in the worst way imaginable."

Sherlock felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs and his eyes darted all over, feeling faint. He could feel his head moving from side to side but he felt like he wasn't even physically there. None of this made sense; it wasn't even logical. Finally, he heard a voice that sounded like his own.

"No… that didn't happen… you're… you're lying, Mycroft."

His brother closed his eyes and when Sherlock looked up at him, he saw the sincerity and sadness written all over his face. "I am… so very sorry, Sherlock. I wish I could say that I was lying and that I was making this all up but… that in itself would be a lie. I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now."

"No," Sherlock murmured. "You can't…"

The two brothers sat in an awkward and uncomfortable silence for what felt like ages, Mycroft staring unsurely at his brother while Sherlock seemed to stare off into nothingness. Finally, the elder brother spoke again.

"I'm not sure how you were able to not remember any of this but… you must admit, it explains your abnormal behavior, as well as your depression. Your mind was protecting itself. It also explains your random blackouts too. Maybe now some good can come out of this unfortunate incident – "

"Where were you?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked at his younger sibling. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock finally forced himself to meet his brother's eyes. "Where were you when all of this was taking place, when that… _monster _was hurting me? Taking advantage of me… where were you? Why didn't you stop it? You were old enough! You could've done _something_."

Sherlock could feel hot tears running down his face but he felt so many emotions right now that he could barely feel himself crying, something he never wanted to do in front of his elder brother.

Mycroft looked taken aback, almost scared even as he saw this side of his brother. "I…I-I tried, Sherlock."

The younger man hit his fists down on the table. "Liar! You did not try, Mycroft! Just admit it! You didn't do anything!"

"I beg your pardon, Sherlock? Y-You're out of order… _calm yourself _right now, Sherlock, or I will walk out of this café…" Mycroft kept his voice down to a hushed whisper.

Sherlock shook his head again and clenched his jaw, trying to find words to what he was thinking or feeling, his mind spinning. "I-I can't handle this right now… I'm… I'm leaving."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock stood up and then ran out of the café and glanced out the window as he hailed a cab and disappeared towards St. Bart's Hospital.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

When Sherlock arrived at the hospital, he threw a handful of notes at the cabbie before he jumped out and started running inside, his eyes red and puffy from sobbing and still not letting up that much. His thoughts were racing but he knew what he needed right now.

He needed sense.

He needed something to make sense.

Everything was falling apart around him and he felt like his body was going to explode, the pain in his chest almost stabbing and his breathing unstable and erratic. This had to be a panic attack. He looked frantically around and started down a hallway.

"JOHN! JOHN WATSON!" he nearly screamed, feeling like his body was going to collapse at any moment, his legs feeling heavy as lead.

He saw a familiar man exit one of the rooms and look in Sherlock's direction before he walked quickly towards him, his eyes wide. He took his face in his hands and started to quickly take in the younger man's appearance.

"Sherlock! You're pale, and… crying… here, come with me…" John took Sherlock by his hand and hurriedly led him into his own private office and shut the door before drawing the blinds. He helped Sherlock sit down but no sooner had he done that, the detective stood back up.

"N-No… I-I can't… I can't s-sit right now! You don't u-understand… I just… M-Mycroft told me… he told me!" Sherlock sobbed, the mind that was usually so organized and concise now a complete mess.

John felt anxious at his best friend's demeanor but he knew he had to be the voice of reason and calm right now. He took Sherlock's face in his hands again but this time attempted to hold it still, forcing him to focus solely on the doctor.

"Sherlock, listen to me, okay? You're breathing erratically and the oxygen can't work properly right now. You're most likely having a panic attack so you need to try and relax a little bit. Can you do that for me?"

"I… I-I don't know…"

"Breathe through your nose, and out through your mouth, Sherlock. You need to do this or you're going to pass out. The oxygen needs to get to your brain, so just _breathe._" John demonstrated the action for Sherlock and soon they were breathing together, although Sherlock's breathing was still shaky. "Good… that's it. You're doing brilliant, Sherlock. Just keep breathing, okay? Sit down…"

Sherlock barely felt John force him to sit in the chair across from his desk but he let him. It felt good to sit. He blinked several times, trying to get his bearings. He forced himself to focus on John right now, because John Watson seemed to be the only thing from blacking out or falling apart. He continued the breathing exercises and once he could breathe properly again, he put his face in his hands, his crying feeling annoying and unrelenting.

John grabbed his own chair and moved it in front of Sherlock, placing his hands on Sherlock's knees. "Whatever it is, we can handle this together. You're not alone, Sherlock… I promise you that. Just take your time."

Sherlock nodded and calmed his sobbing down to a whimper and occasional hiccupping. His whole face looked red and blotchy from his crying but he didn't care. That was irrelevant right now. He swallowed the lump back he felt in his throat and looked back up at John, his eyes still watery.

"M-Mycroft told me w-why I'm blacking out and what our father did to me a-and… what… w-what his mate did to me…" Sherlock trailed off and rubbed is eyes hard, as if he were trying to make the memory disappear. He shook his head again and he exhaled before he looked up at John with helpless, fearful eyes. "He sexually a-abused me, John… he got me alone e-every chance he had and… and he took advantage of me… oh God…"

John bit his lip and looked at Sherlock worriedly before he set his jaw and sighed heavily. "Sherlock… I… am so sorry. I don't even know what to say to make any of this better. I wish I could erase everything that happened to you."

Sherlock remained quiet as he just nodded in acknowledgment of John's sympathy, perhaps unsure how to respond to it. "T-That means a lot to me, John. Thank you… I just… I-I…" he struggled to find the proper words. Then, realization hit his face. "I…need you right now, John. I _need you._ I don't know what to do right now and I-I'm honestly terrified to be alone right now. I'm s-sorry. I know I'm interrupting your work but… I didn't want to go to Lestrade and he was too far anyway – "

John leaned in and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's, an obvious attempt to make him stop talking. It felt something more to the detective, though. The kiss felt like the validation he needed as well as all the answers he could ever ask in the world. Once John pulled away, he remained close as he rested his forehead gently against Sherlock's.

"It's okay. It's all right. I don't mind you coming to me, at all. That's what I want you to do. I never want you to feel like you're alone in anything, Sherlock. Ever."

Sherlock nodded in understanding and closed his eyes. "Everything's so fucked up, John. I don't know what to do."

John was surprised to hear Sherlock swear but also hearing the rare curse word come out of Sherlock's mouth let him know how serious things were. "I know… it's going to be difficult but we're going to get through this. I would start you on a new dosage of different antidepressants but you haven't had the proper time to withdrawal from the other ones so…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and then slowly leaned back in his chair. "I haven't taken the other ones since we decided to do the tests on them. It's been nearly forty-eight hours. I think that's enough time to start different ones…"

John heard the deadness in the male's voice and felt his heart breaking. Sherlock usually had some type of enthusiasm for something, whether it was for a new case or a new murder. Hearing the 'nothing' in Sherlock's voice scared him.

"Err… yeah, right. Actually, let's see how you behave without the new ones, just for a week or so. They don't seem to help your blackouts and they just appear to make you feel worse. Call it an experiment; we'll just keep an eye on you but I want you to mark down when you're feeling depressed or… suicidal and if it's really bad, then perhaps we'll start you on some new medication. I think you just need some time to… process all the new information your brother told you," John thought aloud.

"What's to process? I was sexually abused by our neighbour. That's all there is to it…"

John shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry? It _was _you who came in here about ten minutes ago screaming my name and sobbing hysterically, wasn't it? No one gets over being told something like that in several minutes, not even you, Sherlock."

"Would you like to go out for dinner tonight or stay in and order something?" Sherlock stood up before he started to scroll through his phone for the number of the fish and chips place down the street.

John stood up as well but looked at Sherlock with confusion and uneasiness. "Sherlock, let's just… sit down for now and talk about exactly what Mycroft said to you, all right? There must have been more than what you've told me…"

Sherlock half-shrugged, almost as he would out of boredom but continued to play with his phone. "Details are boring, John. There's nothing else you need to know. That was it. Oh, and just that our father also physically hurt me growing up but… as far as I'm concerned, that's neither here nor there so it doesn't matter."

John couldn't stand it anymore. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's phone from him before he took a step towards the younger man. "Doesn't matter? Sherlock, you were _abused _by the two people you and your mother and your brother trusted the most. Why doesn't any of it bother you? It seemed to bother you earlier! You were in damn near hysterics over it. You were having a panic attack! You can't just pretend none of it matters…"

Sherlock searched John's face. "Can I please have my phone back now, John?"

"You need to admit that this is bothering you first, Sherlock. You just told me how messed up all of it is and now you're acting like it doesn't bother you! No, no one can go like that at a flip of a switch. You can be cold and a machine but not even you can pretend that you're just peachy keen when you're not! Tell me that this is affecting you and I'll give you back your phone," John promised, somewhat annoyed at Sherlock's lack of emotion.

"My phone, John…"

John smiled without humor and shook his head. "Showing some vulnerability is not a bad thing, Sherlock! Pushing all of it back down inside of you is just asking for trouble. It's going to build up and build up until you can't stand it anymore and I don't want anything bad to happen to you. Why can't we just talk about this?"

Sherlock took a step towards the doctor. "Because… I don't want to talk about this right now. I wish to forget it, so just let me forget it, John."

The younger man's tone sounded so agonizing pleading that John was hesitant to push the matter any further. Sherlock had been through enough for one lifetime. John knew he would have to broach the subject again in the near future but maybe he could just let it go for now.

"Fine, then. I won't mention it again today, but… you're going to have to think about it again, whether you like it or not." John reluctantly handed back the phone to Sherlock and then leaned in and kissed his lips again, this time more passionately.

He didn't want to lose Sherlock and after finding out about his past attempts, and then the horrible, nightmarish repressed memory he had been dreading for the past couple weeks, it became a real possible and real terrifying possibility that he might lose Sherlock Holmes to himself.


	15. Breakthrough

**A/N:** I'm sorry if I upset anyone with my last chapter. Does anyone think I should put a trigger warning at the beginning of it? If you do, let me know either by PM or in your review. I'm always unsure about putting trigger warnings because I'm not sure if the things I write would be considered trigger or not.

I apologize if anyone was affected negatively in the last chapter so I'll just be safe and post a trigger warning from now on.

**TW: This chapter and possible future chapters may contain descriptions (vague and somewhat specific) of sexual and physical abuse. Please read at your own risk. **

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Breakthrough

.o.o.

.o.

_Go straight to the place where you first lost your balance_

_And find your feet with the people that you love_

_And bring us in an indigo dawn with the lovelorn and renegade_

_Yes you were the eyes of a men not forgotten_

_Get hold of the night that rises in your blood_

_Focus on your pulse, focus on your breath, know that we're never far away_

Elbow - Real Life (Angel)

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock stayed in his room for nearly three whole days, only coming out to use the bathroom before popping back into his bedroom again. He also made a conscience effort to keep John locked out, both out of the bedroom as well as John's life. Neither went unnoticed by the doctor.

The detective lay in his bedroom still on the morning of the fourth day, letting the white sheet swallow up in a cocoon of warm comfort. He didn't know what he was feeling but he didn't want to show his vulnerability to John; the last thing he wanted right now was pity from him. He wished there was some way to be around dear John without the nagging or the unwelcome sympathy that always felt like charity to Sherlock.

He had felt hungry the first forty-eight hours but once the second day ended and the third day had started, the hunger pangs had disappeared and the numbness came back. Sherlock swallowed hard, thinking.

He knew he had been young but why hadn't Mycroft did anything to protect him? He had been old enough to know what was going on wasn't right or even legal. Why hadn't he said anything to someone, anyone? The silent answer appeared suddenly in Sherlock's mind.

_Because he wanted to see you suffer._

The brothers had a rivalry but there were just some things that weren't right to do to do your own brother, no matter what. Letting him be abused by his father's best friend seemed to be one of those things. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, feeling his heart begin to pound against his chest erratically.

No, he couldn't let himself think about this again. He wished he could just simply 'get over' this. It was in the past so why was it bothering him so much _now_? It was annoying to say the least. His thoughts were then interrupted abruptly by the sound of his partner's voice outside the door.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

John's voice sounded far away, as if he was talking to him from another planet. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly, debating whether or not to answer him.

He heard a heavy, tired sigh come from John's side of the door before the detective heard his voice again. "Sherlock… please come out," the doctor begged softly, sadly. "Please. You need to eat something and you've locked me out. I'm really worried about you, mate."

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip anxiously, torn apart. He wanted the closeness of his John but he didn't want to eat anything. He stayed where he was, holding the sheet tighter to his body.

"We don't have to talk about anything, Sherlock. I…I promise. I just want to see you and make sure you're all right. I-I miss you…"

Sherlock sighed inwardly now, hearing the pain in his lover's voice and feeling an ache in his chest. He forced himself off the bed and moved towards the door before he unlocked it. Not even five seconds later, he saw it open and then saw John looking up at him in surprise and concern.

"I'm not talking about it," Sherlock spoke curtly before he walked around John and sat down in the armchair by the newly lit fire, his body cold and malnourished.

John rubbed his neck before he turned around to face him and nodded. "Right, okay… of course. Do you… maybe want some tea or something? If you're hungry, I can make you a bit of toast or you can eat some fruit perhaps?"

Sherlock looked down at the flickering flames inside the fireplace and cleared his throat. "I'm not hungry."

John moved over to him and gave him a small, reassuring smile before he knelt down and placed a hand on Sherlock's knee, looking up at him with loving eyes. "Okay. I'm not… going to force you to eat but… can I just take a look at you?"

Sherlock looked down at John, fully aware he meant well but he couldn't help but feel patronized, like a child again. He bit back all the hurtful words that was threatening to burst out. He already knew what John was going to say. The detective knew what his body would look like to the doctor, but he also knew that it was easier just to give in to John's demands than fight with him on it.

He reluctantly stood up and took the sheet off, grateful that he at least had boxer briefs on. He watched as John stood up to full height and let his eyes trail up and down Sherlock's body as brief, concerned looks reached his eyes.

"Sherlock, I can see your ribcage… you really should eat something. Your legs look like twigs."

This was what the younger man had been afraid of. The nagging; it seemed endless. "I told you, John. I'm not hungry."

The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper in check, before he looked back up at Sherlock with defeated eyes. "Fine… okay. Can you at least have some tea? For me?"

He was about to argue until John had added the 'for me' bit. He couldn't argue with that, and John knew it. He knew that Sherlock wasn't always vulnerable but when it involved himself, Sherlock would succumb.

"If I must," Sherlock nearly whispered before he watched John relax slightly and go into the kitchen and turn the burner on underneath the kettle.

He wrapped the sheet around his body again before he sat back down in the armchair, letting himself sink into it. He listened to the rattling of the tea tray and tea cups and he let himself space out, feeling hypnotized by the flames.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Can you hear me?"

The young man blinked several times before he looked back at John curiously. "I'm sorry. Weren't you making tea a moment ago?"

John motioned to the tea mug that sat on a saucer beside Sherlock's chair before he searched Sherlock's face. "Did you black out again?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head before he grabbed his tea and saucer. "I didn't… black out, John. I just became lost in my own thoughts."

John chewed on his lower lip nervously. "I don't like this, Sherlock. I don't like you becoming distant from me. You locked yourself in your room for three days, not eating, probably not even sleeping, and not even talking to me."

"You let me," Sherlock said almost icily, although he held no ill will towards John for it.

The doctor nodded knowingly. "That's not the point. I wanted to give you time to think about everything. I wanted to give you some time to process it and maybe come to terms with it. I was hoping that perhaps… I don't know. Maybe you would be okay if you thought about it enough."

Sherlock wanted to wrap his arms around John so tightly and never let go of him. He wanted to breathe him in until it hurt. Instead, he remained in his chair, the sheet the only thing hugging his body. "I'm afraid to let myself think about what happened, John. I'm afraid that if I think about it enough, I'm going to black out more and my depression will worsen."

John searched his eyes desperately, perhaps wanting the same thing that Sherlock wanted. "You don't think your depression is already worsening? Sherlock, not eating, barely talking, isolating yourself; these are all textbook symptoms of depression. Just let me in. Let me help…"

"How can you help me?"

John looked at a loss for words suddenly. "I-I don't know," he stammered helplessly. "I just want to make things okay for you again. I want you to love me again."

Sherlock became swiftly aware of the aching in his heart again and his mouth feeling dry. "I… I still love you, John. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Why would I think otherwise? You lock me out of the bedroom, didn't talk to me for seventy-two hours, refused to come out to eat and the only time you asked me for help was in my office four days ago when you had a full-blown panic attack. Then, you come home and ask if I wanted to order in for dinner. These things aren't signs of love, Sherlock. You're trying to repress this even further and that's not healthy, for anyone," John urged.

Sherlock could feel anger boiling up inside of him but he couldn't take it out on John when he was already causing the doctor so much emotional pain. "I'm sorry, John. I don't… I don't mean to hurt you but I don't know what to do in this particular situation. I don't feel love inside of me so I suppose it's difficult for me to show anyone else love."

John sighed and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you _want _to do right now, Sherlock?"

The detective looked puzzled for a moment before he distractedly started to pick at the skin around his fingernails. "I don't know. I suppose I want to take lots and lots of illegal sedatives and sleep for days on end until I don't remember anything my brother told me four day ago."

John straightened up now and looked unsurely at Sherlock. "How serious should I take that?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. "Take it how you will, I suppose, John. Lying about what I want to do would just be a waste of both of our time."

John sighed again and then rubbed his eyes before he looked back up at the man he loved more than anything else in the world. "Can you just… let me try something with you first before you go out wherever your old stomping grounds are and shoot filth into your veins? Will you just give me a chance to help you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

John took out his phone and quickly texted the man he thought could help Sherlock the most right now, the man who had been the cause of Sherlock's worsening depression. When he was done, he looked back up at Sherlock.

"Please don't hate me for this, Sherlock. I only want to help you and I… truly believe he can help you."

Sherlock felt a sinking feeling in his stomach now. "W-What have you done? Who did you just text message?"

John just gave Sherlock a sad smile before he stood up and walked over to the young man until he was inches away from him. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his jaw before he stood up again and then looked into the flames.

Sherlock was quiet again, curiosity and fear both building up inside of him. He didn't know that many people in their lives but narrowed it down to Lestrade or Mycroft, although, there was a chance that John was fully giving up on him and had called someone from the hospital to come and get him. The silence between both men was making him uneasy. Usually, John was always speaking to him and his sudden silence was rare.

Finally, Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. "Just tell me you're not sending me somewhere to be locked up."

John shook his head. "I'm not, Sherlock. I wouldn't do that to you. That would just make you even worse. I only want to help you."

"So you've said multiple times…"

John turned to face Sherlock now and in the flames of the firelight, Sherlock could make out a single tear making a trail down the doctor's cheek. "Because it's true. I love you. I'd die for you and I'd fight for you and… I'm willing to do both of those things if it means it'll help you on some level, somehow. I am _not _giving up on you, Sherlock. I don't care how stubborn you are. I know you're not going to make this easy but it's because I love you that I'm doing this, so please don't hate me."

"Why would I hate you?"

Bad timing seemed intent on answering his question when there was a knock at the door. John quickly wiped away his tears and cleared his throat before he walked over to the door and opened it. He nodded and stepped out of the way to let the man inside the flat.

"John…" A voice greeted dryly before nodding back at the doctor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed when he heard his brother's voice. He didn't hate John for having called Mycroft, but it did increase his overall annoyance. "I should've guessed it was you."

The elder brother walked over to the chair where John had been sitting a few minutes ago and sat down across from the younger Holmes brother. "Guessing is for amateurs, dear brother. You're much smarter than that."

Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter to him before watching John disappear towards his own bedroom to give the siblings privacy. He looked back at Mycroft. "Three visits in less than a week… it is either my birthday or we've both died and gone to Hell."

"Well, you've certainly not lost your sense of humor at least, Sherlock. That's comforting," Mycroft drawled. "By the look of you, I'd say you haven't eaten anything for about four days. You haven't slept for three of those days, and from the hoarseness of your voice, I'd say you haven't conversed since the day you left our little meet-up."

"Brilliant deduction, Mycroft. You should have my job," Sherlock replied sardonically. "Can we please skip this idle talk about discuss the real situation at hand?"

Mycroft's amused facial expression twisted into seriousness in less than a minute. He crossed his legs and then looked his brother in the eye. "You want to discuss the real matter at hand, Sherlock? Very well. You've been neglecting to take proper care of yourself and it would appear our conversation at the café four days ago has affected you to the point of worsening your depression. You've isolated and distanced yourself from myself, Greg Lestrade, and most importantly, John. It is vital you get this under control, Sherlock, and quickly."

Sherlock held back the sudden temptation to laugh in his brother's face. He clenched and unclenched his long fingers under the sheet. "I just found out I've been sexual and physically abused as a child, Mycroft. I'm not prone to outbursts of emotion very often but I believe I could safely say that I have a certain right to feel the way I do after what I've experienced."

His brother nodded slowly. "You were a victim of unfortunate circumstances, Sherlock. You do have the right to a certain… selfishness, I suppose, but you should turn your tragic childhood experience into something positive."

"And how do you suppose I do that exactly?"

Mycroft took out his cigarette case and took one out for himself before he offered one to Sherlock, who leaned over and brought out a slender arm to take it from Mycroft's hand. His brother took his name lighting both of their cigarettes before he took a drag from his own and relaxed in the chair.

"I understand you possess several sociopathic qualities but it comes to my attention that doing things for other people can somehow put your own demons to rest. What I'm suggesting you try, dear brother mine, is to let John in. Let him help, let Greg Lestrade help you, and do try not to lose your patience with either of them," Mycroft insisted. "I believe if you go to lengths to make them happy, then you might be a better person for it."

"You're one to talk, Mycroft. Letting people in and doing things to make them happy? That's not exactly up your alley, is it? It's amusing that you're telling me to do these things when you haven't ever done them yourself."

Mycroft took another drag of his cigarette before he exhaled, coughing slightly. "Do as I say, not as I do, Sherlock. I believe you should be placed on antidepressants again. They might very well help you and I believe it dangerous for you to not be on them during this time with how you have been these past few days."

Sherlock nearly ripped the sheet away from himself now. "I'm only this way because _you _had to tell me the memories I was repressing!"

"Are you saying this is my fault…?"

Sherlock finally stood up now, letting the sheet fall down to his waist, exposing his bare chest, but then tied it tightly so it wouldn't fall any lower. "Yes, of course I am! You didn't have to unload all that information about that bastard on me that same day! You could've told me on separate occasions and maybe even a bit more delicately!"

"Delicately? Sherlock, I was already telling you as delicately as I knew how. Anyway, it's done and over with now so I suggest that you move on with your life and do as I suggested."

Sherlock put out his unsmoked cigarette in the nearby ashtray on the table before he took a step towards his brother, careful not to trip over the sheet. "It's done and over with for _you_! You can go home and sleep peacefully now but I have to deal with the knowledge of what happened! I have the memories of what happened and now that you've told me some details concerning it, I've been getting occasional flashbacks to my childhood trauma so thank you very much, Mycroft!"

The elder brother put out his cigarette as well before he cocked an eyebrow. "I understand that you're having difficulty coping with the reality of your repressed memories and that perhaps you're unsure what to do with them now, but you shouldn't go blaming me for this, Sherlock. I'm only trying to help you."

"Help me?" Sherlock took another step towards him. "You haven't helped me at all! I could've lived just better not knowing the truth. Why shouldn't I blame you? You're the reason why I haven't slept or eaten or conversed with John these past few days! I've been beating myself up because I keep thinking that I could've done _something_ to stop what was happening. It was my fault that he did those things to me!"

Sherlock didn't even know if those words were true but they felt true to him, and that was enough. He felt angry at himself, his brother, the man who had taken advantage of his naivety…

Mycroft stood up suddenly and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You mustn't believe that. Of course you couldn't do anything to stop him from hurting you. You were only a child. I speak as your older brother and a man who cares very deeply for your well-being; none of it was your fault."

Sherlock growled in frustration and then moved threateningly towards Mycroft, who gave an almost fearful look at his younger sibling. "Admit it was yours, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Admit that you could've done something to put an end to it, Mycroft. You were old enough to know better. You knew what was going on and you let it happen," Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly but inside he was raging like a wildfire about to spread over several hundred acres of forest.

"Are you implying that I let you continue to be abused by him because I wanted you to feel pain?"

"You've always taken pleasure in my pain and mishaps, Mycroft. It isn't such a giant leap to assume you would take the same pleasure in seeing me tortured as a child. Just admit it was your fault."

Mycroft suddenly slammed his hand down hard on the table, causing the china cup to rattle on the saucer. "No! Damn it, Sherlock, I will not admit to that! I did what I could! Lest you forget, I was just an adolescent when it was happening so I couldn't exactly do much either! I did what I could!"

Sherlock suddenly shoved Mycroft with both his arms. "You didn't do enough!" he screamed, hardly even feeling the hot tears that were sliding down his cheeks.

His brother fell back a bit and blinked, surprised to see Sherlock crying. "_I ended it._"

Sherlock swallowed hard and when he finally felt the saltwater on his skin, he wiped it away roughly. "W-What? What do you mean, you ended it?"

Mycroft took a step away from Sherlock but looked at his younger sibling with sympathetic eyes. "I mean, Sherlock, when I found out what was taken place, I told our father. Of course he didn't believe me so your abuse continued until I made sure that father walked in on it and saw for himself. He was terribly angry and confused and he called the police. He told them what he saw, as did I. Your abuser ended up going to jail for twenty-five years for sexual assault and rape. I ended it, Sherlock. I couldn't let it continue, not without hating myself for it, anyway."

"You… you s-stopped it," Sherlock clenched his jaw to stop himself from fully breaking down. He had gotten flashbacks but none of it contained any sign of the abuse having stopped eventually. It played like a looped video in his mind, over and over. "You saved me."

Mycroft cleared his throat and smiled ever so slightly. "Curious; you seem to constantly mix me up for your arch-enemy rather than your ally. We may forget where our priorities lie any other time but when it comes to family, you'll always be my ally, Sherlock. It would do you some good to believe the same of me."

Sherlock was in awed surprise that he felt speechless for several minutes, letting silence fill the room. He swallowed hard and then felt somewhat embarrassed. He had blamed Mycroft for what had happened this whole time because he had truly believed that his older brother had purposely let it go on just for the sake of getting pleasure out of seeing his younger sibling be tortured and abused but he had underestimated Mycroft. He took a few steps back from him, suddenly feeling unworthy to be in his presence.

"I-It appears… I owe you an apology, Mycroft…"

The elder Holmes held up a hand to stop him. "This has been more than unpleasantly awkward, Sherlock. Apologizing would only make it that much more uncomfortable for both of us. Just consider us allies as far as familial issues go and I'll consider us even. It would benefit us to be on the same side in that aspect, and for John's sake… don't ruin the only other opportunity you've had at being loved as well as loving another human being. John Watson is a trustworthy and extremely patient individual, and I believe if you open up a bit to him, it would help everyone else in turn. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late to a lunch."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft started towards the door and he bit his lower lip in thought. "Thank you…"

Mycroft gave him a smile that looked more like a knowing smirk. "Don't mention it. For either of our sakes."

He felt himself relax slightly once his brother closed the door behind him, their conversation still alive in his mind but slowly dying down. That was it. Mycroft had been the one to help him after all. That's all that Sherlock felt like he wanted to hear; the truth that glued the memories together, as well as his relationship with his brother.

He sat back down in his chair, letting his thoughts trail off as he patiently waited for John to return.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

John anxiously returned back from the store, two grocery bags in each arm as he let himself back into the flat. His eyes meandered towards the spot where Sherlock looked up at him. He walked into the kitchen and set the bags down before he started towards his partner who looked even more vulnerable than before, if that was possible.

The men stared at each other in a comfortable silence and that was the moment when John knew that things were going to improve in their lives. He gave him a short nod and smiled at him lovingly. "So, did… did Mycroft help at all?"

Sherlock let out a deep-throated chuckle as he nodded once. "Help is a very strong word for what Mycroft did but I suppose in a way, yes… he did help to clear some things up for me. Did you know what he was going to say, about how he stepped in and actually did stop what was happening?"

John looked at him with guilty eyes now, the love still laced in them, however. "I met him next door for tea one day and we talked. He, very vaguely, explained the situation to me so I had an idea of what he might say to you but I didn't know everything he would say. Are… are you all right, then?"

Sherlock held the sheet around his shoulders as he took several steps towards John. He looked down at him with a neutral expression. "I'm not sure what I am right now but… I must admit that I've come to better terms with what happened and my brother's part in it."

John nodded in understanding. "It's… going to take some work still, but we'll get there. We just can't… fall apart. You can't distance yourself from me anymore. If you're going to let me help you, you need to let me in."

"I can try to do that, John. You know I can't promise anything but… for you, I can try. What comes next?"

John pondered for a moment hesitantly. "Well, I thought maybe we could get you on a different antidepressant and perhaps even add an anti-anxiety medication to it as well. We'll monitor you on it and give it a few weeks for it to kick in properly. In the meantime, maybe I can act as your temporary psychiatrist of sorts and you can just… talk to me. We'll take things one day at a time."

Sherlock nodded, although flinched slightly at the thought of confiding his thoughts and feelings purely to John. He felt too emotionally drained to dwell on that right now, though. Besides, John was feeling so much hope right now for Sherlock to get better that it would hurt to shoot him down now.

"I can't promise that I won't have bad days, John…"

"Oh, I expect you to have them," John replied, nodding understandingly, "but like I said, we'll get through them together. I don't doubt that there will be days when you want to yell and stomp around and be quiet towards me but I know what I bargained for when I fell for you, Sherlock. I'm willing to go through all of it with you."

Sherlock sighed inwardly and took John's face into his large hands before leaning in and pressed his lips to the doctor's. He ran his fingers gently through his hair and then towards the ex-soldier's broad shoulders before finally parting again.

"That means… so much to me, John. More than I deserve."

"Oh shut up, you stubborn arse, and come back here…" John stood on his toes and pressed their lips together again before he lead Sherlock into the bedroom, never letting their lips part again, not even to shut the door behind them.


	16. Better

**A/N**: So we're now closing in on the last 2-3 chapters of this story (haven't quite decided yet!). There are many other johnlock fics to write and so little time. I apologize to those who were hoping for a longer story but I thank those who have been loyal reviewers.

You people are wonderful.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Better

.o.o.

.o.

_Little darling_

_The smiles returning to the faces_

_Little darling_

_It seems like years since it's been clear_

_Here comes the sun_

_Here comes the sun, and I say_

_It's all right_

_Beatles - Here Comes The Sun  
_

**.o.o.**

**.o.  
**

"No!"

Sherlock shot up quickly in bed, his chest heaving and sweat matting his curls to his head. He glanced around in the dark before he let himself fall onto his back again, covering his face with his hands. He ran his long fingers through his damp hair just as the door opened.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Y-Yes, John," the young man murmured in the darkened room. "I'm fine, it was just a dream… didn't mean to disturb you."

John hesitated at the doorway, watching his best friend and lover suffering from nightmares he couldn't control. Maybe bringing them to light wasn't the smartest thing. Now he was being tortured every time he closed his eyes.

"Is there… anything I can do to help you at all, Sherlock?"

The young man was about to tell his doctor that he'd be better off doing something productive but he needed John. He couldn't allow himself to push him away as he'd done in the past. He turned his head and looked at him with solemn eyes. "Come here, John… please. Come and lay with me. That's how you can help."

John gave him a loving smile before he walked over and got under the covers where Sherlock was. He let the younger man position him so he could lay his head on John's chest and then gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark hair.

"They can't hurt you, your nightmares. That's all they are," John whispered reassuringly.

"I know," Sherlock spoke, matter-of-factly. "I know what they are. It's ridiculous they can affect me so much, though. What happened, the sexual abuse… it happened ages ago. None of it should matter to me now, so why does it, John? Why does it matter?"

John held Sherlock close to him, feeling his heart breaking. "It matters because it hurt you. You blocked it from your memory because it hurt you so much; you couldn't begin to fathom why someone who took care of you could hurt you so badly without thinking twice. It matters to you because it destroyed you inside. It ripped you apart and now you feel used and violated, which is normal to feel in your position, Sherlock."

The younger man gripped John's shirt with his hands and took a deep breath to stop himself from crying. He swallowed hard and then nodded against the doctor's chest, listening to him. "Having my brother tell me what happened was the worst idea I've ever had."

"Really? I can think of worst ideas you've had, Sherlock…" John teased lightly.

Sherlock let out a deep-throated chuckle that seemed to reverberate off the walls of the bedroom. "I'm sure I can too, but… maybe if he hadn't told me what had happened, I'd still be okay."

"Sherlock," John sighed now, biting his lower lip in thought. "How many blackouts have you had in the past two weeks since he told you? How many times can you count where you've forgotten a chunk of time?"

The young man tried to think but he could count on one hand the number. "Maybe, one or two, I suppose."

"One or two," John repeated. "In two weeks. You were blacking out at least three times that number before he told you, do you remember? I'd say that's progress. You're becoming aware of yourself and you're managing to stay in the present more than before. I think he's helped you by telling you about it, Sherlock. You may not want to admit it but he did help you."

"Maybe," Sherlock admitted. "I'll just be glad when I stop blacking out altogether."

John kissed his curls before letting his hand slide down to his back. "Me too. How are you feeling depression-wise since we started the new antidepressants? Any better?"

"A bit," the detective confessed in a whisper. "I haven't felt suicidal in at least a week."

"More progress," John smiled in the dark.

Sherlock lifted his head up now to look John in the eye. "I don't want to hear about progress, John…"

John's smile faded slightly. "What _do_ you want to hear, then?"

Sherlock thought for a moment before he sighed. "I don't know. I suppose I just want to forget about it, about what happened. I want you to forget about it too so we can move on with our lives."

"What happened to you was traumatic, Sherlock – "

" – Which is why I want to forget about it," the young man cut across him in a patient voice. "I'll continue to take my medication but I just don't want us to talk about it anymore. I understand you want to help me but I really don't think you can help me with this. I don't want to talk about it with Mycroft or Lestrade or anyone. I just want everyone to leave it alone so we can be together properly. I'm tired of being selfish."

"Did I hear this correctly? Sherlock Holmes is tired of being a self-centered prat?" John joked softly, smiling. "You're not being selfish by talking about something that hurt you when you were a child, Sherlock. If you don't want to talk about it, that's perfectly okay, but I don't want you to be afraid to talk about it if you feel the need to. I won't think you're being selfish in the least. Talking can be quite healing…"

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement but then let the conversation hang in the air for several minutes as he started to caress John's chest. The two men were quiet for a long time before John finally turned to Sherlock.

"Are you hungry? I can make us some lunch..."

The detective didn't feel very hungry but he wanted to make John happy and the doctor hadn't seen him eat anything in the past few days. Sherlock simply nodded and John carefully got up and walked into the kitchen. The former man followed him and sat at the table and watched John begin to make them sandwiches and tea.

"I… I just want to thank you, John…"

John Watson glanced back at Sherlock in awe and surprise. "Thank me? For what?"

"Well, I believe you know… for being here for me, for… taking care of me. Actually, for all the things you do for me. John, I'm grateful for you being here, loving me like you do, being my doctor and friend above all else. I'm positive that I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," Sherlock admitted in a soft voice.

John placed the plate of cucumber sandwiches on the middle of the table before he turned the burner on under the kettle and finally faced Sherlock. "It's my pleasure. You know I'd do anything for you, Sherlock, right? I mean, you've done so much for me that I can't imagine not returning the favor. I love you and that's what two people who love each other do, isn't it? They go to the ends of the earth for each other."

Sherlock gave a warm smile and nodded once before he cleared his throat. "Indeed, John. I believe that's how human behavior works."

John nodded as well and then handed Sherlock two of his antidepressant pills before pouring him a small glass of water and placing it in front of him. Sherlock obediently swallowed both pills, as per his daily routine for the past three weeks now, and then sat back in his chair as he began to nibble on the sandwich John had made.

Once the tea was done, both men sat in a comfortable silence as they ate lunch together, all the while exchanging loving glances and knowing smiles at each other. It had to be the most pleasant lunch Sherlock had ever had with him where his depression wasn't completely debilitating and his mind wasn't distracted with other things. It felt like a part of humanity he belonged to, a part where he could sit with the man he loved and cared for and sit in a non-awkward silence.

After they were finished, there was a knock at the door. John looked at Sherlock with curious, questioning eyes.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered for him.

John nodded and stood up before walking over and opened the door for the DI who eagerly made his way inside.

"I'm sorry for interrupting your lunch but there's a case that just came in for you, Sherlock. You're – "

"Not interested," Sherlock replied immediately as he sipped his tea.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows with his mouth agape and looked at him. "Not interested? Sherlock, we need you for this one!"

"Obviously, or else you wouldn't be here… fine, then. What is it?"

Lestrade threw the file on the table for Sherlock to look at and crossed his arms. "We just took a gentleman in after a kid reported… err… inappropriate conduct."

Sherlock dropped the folder as if Lestrade had just told him there was anthrax on it. He looked from John to the DI. "The child was molested then by this said 'gentleman'? You want me to take this particular case… why, Lestrade? Because I have experience in it? Is that why you came to me? Please tell me this is some sick joke."

Greg Lestrade shifted uncomfortably now and looked at John for some type of backup support but received only a confused and hurt look in return. He sighed and looked at Sherlock. "That's not why I came here to you. You bloody know why I came here, Sherlock! You're the best in London and I can't do this without you. Scotland Yard can't do it without you."

Sherlock kicked the file back over to the DI in disgust before he stood up. "What did you expect me to do for this case, Lestrade? I can't talk to _children_! I'm not the voice of reason in the darkness! You found the perpetrator so what else is there to do?"

Lestrade reluctantly picked up the folder and ran a hand through his peppered hair. "You've been through this, Sherlock. You know what the child's feeling. None of us have any idea. We don't know what to say to this kid! You do. You can somehow give this kid some words of comfort…"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in disbelief. "Words of comfort? I'm not a damn crisis worker, Lestrade! What the hell do you expect me to say to them? That it gets _better?_ That their fears are unfounded and that they'll feel better about this whole situation in a few years' time? Normally I'm okay with lying to someone but I do have certain lines I don't cross! This is one of them!"

John walked over to Sherlock and took his hand into his before looking at the DI with conflicted eyes. "I… believe I'm with Sherlock on this one, Greg. I'm sorry… it seems like you just want to recruit Sherlock to be a poster boy for childhood abuse and… he's obviously not interested so perhaps you should come back when you have a better case for him."

Sherlock looked over at John in utter surprise, not having expected the doctor to be on his side in this. They hadn't had a proper case for nearly a month and he thought for sure John would jump all over this one.

Lestrade pursed his lips and then nodded reluctantly before he nodded a goodbye and left the flat.

"I can't believe he had the nerve to ask you to do that… especially after what Mycroft had told you."

Sherlock felt at a loss for words at first but then found his tongue again. "I-I wouldn't have been able to help that child, John. I… I wouldn't be able to tell him it gets better in time because that would've just been a lie. Nothing gets better in time… it's just a lie others tell to make people feel better about the situation."

"I agree, Sherlock… I mean, you might've been able to just tell the kid something to comfort him but you're right; it wouldn't have been enough after what they just went through."

"Why?" Sherlock asked suddenly, turning to face John.

John looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm sorry? You're going to have to be more specific…"

"Why did you take my side? You could've managed to talk me into taking the case and talking to that child, John. I never saw you agree with me before about not taking a case…"

John half-shrugged and shook his head. "You were obviously uncomfortable with doing it. Why would I try to talk you into something you felt uncomfortable doing? This is something that hits too close to home for you and… I believed that Greg was wrong in trying to get you to do this for him. I only want you to take whatever cases you want to take and talk to whomever you feel comfortable talking to, Sherlock."

The detective let John's words soak in before he nodded in satisfaction and then swallowed hard. "Right, okay then. What shall we do today?"

John seemed taken aback by the sudden change of subject but welcomed it. "Park, maybe? We could go for a walk?"

"Yes… we could do that," Sherlock started, his voice signalling otherwise. "Or… we could maybe go to the theatre and see a play?"

"Sherlock, we've been through this at least a dozen times. I am not sitting through four hours of Les Miserablés, so you can just scratch that idea right now…"

Sherlock looked slightly disappointed but chuckled. "Honestly, John. What's the difference between sitting through four hours of Les Miserablés or sitting through three hours of Phantom of the Opera?"

"Well, let me think. Phantom of the Opera is not only shorter in length but it's also about a love story, which I'm more open to…"

Sherlock looked at him with dismayed eyes. "So is Les Miserablés! That's a love story!"

John playfully narrowed his eyes as he walked over to Sherlock and placed his hands on his sides. "Mmm… not so much. It's a very depressing musical about several lives where no one has a happy ending. I thought with your own depression, you might be a bit more inclined to choose hopeful over long and depressing…"

"At least I'm always full of surprises."

"Bad surprises," John rolled his eyes. "What about this, we'll compromise. We'll stay home, watch a crime movie and I'll even let you practice your deduction skills during it."

Sherlock looked about to protest until John finished his suggestion. "Well, if you insist."

"That's the spirit…"

John stood on his tiptoes and planted a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips before he ruffled the detective's curls playfully before he laughed to himself and walked over to pick out a movie.

Sherlock scoffed and tried to fix his hair so it wasn't so unruly but was smirking at the doctor. He brought his tea and John's tea over to the living room and placed them on the coffee table before planting himself on the sofa.

"Hmm… Psycho?"

"Too easy…" Sherlock replied almost instantly.

John flipped through his movies some more. "The Untouchables?"

"As much as I can appreciate that movie, how about something a bit more modern?"

"Okay, then…" John hummed as he searched again. "Oh, Casino Royale?"

Sherlock thought for a bit before he gave a noise of agreement. "That sounds acceptable. Hurry up and put it in."

John smirked as he walked over to the DVD player and placed the disk inside. "That's an order I'm somewhat familiar with…"

"Oh shut up, doctor!" Sherlock chuckled before he threw a pillow at him.

John laughed and then hurried over to the couch before letting himself fall on it beside Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John, resting it on the older man's stomach and the two of them sat comfortably as Sherlock softly made deductions about what was going to happen or who was going to kill whom until both men had fallen asleep halfway into the movie.


	17. Speak

**A/N:** Thank you for reviewing the last chapter! I also love hearing from you, **Ayno23! **You're amazing!

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Speak

.o.o.

.o.

_Graceless_

_Is there a powder to erase this?_

_Is it dissolvable and tasteless?_

_You can't imagine how I hate this_

_Graceless_

The National - Graceless 

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock had just finished pouring himself and John tea when there was a determined knocking at the door. He glanced over at John who was ready to close his book before he motioned for his boyfriend to remain in his spot.

"Don't get up, John. I'll get it," he winked at the doctor, opening up the door. Upon seeing Greg Lestrade, Sherlock's playful and content demeanor went out the window. "Oh for God's sake! Why are _you _here… again? You were just here yesterday! What is it you want from me?"

The Detective Inspector let himself inside, gently forcing Sherlock to move out of his way to let him in. He gave a nod of greeting to John who sighed and gave Greg a warning look. He quickly put his hands up in surrender.

"Now, I know what you're about to say, John, but before you kick me out, let me just talk to Sherlock for a bit."

John looked hesitant. "Fine… but prepare to get your arse kicked by an army doctor if you so much as set Sherlock off."

"Fair enough…"

The young detective handed John his tea before taking his tea into his bedroom with him, deciding that would be a more private spot to talk to the head of Scotland Yard. He opened the blinds that hung upon his window, reluctant to turn on any other lights.

"I'd offer you some tea, Lestrade, however I fear that would only make your stay here much longer than I can stand," Sherlock replied icily.

Greg ignored his remark. "Sherlock, we need your assistance with this case."

"No, _you _need my assistance with this case. I'm quite sure that Sergeant Donavan and Anderson don't want me in their presence. As I've told you before, Lestrade, I'm not willing to interrogate whomever it was who was sexually molested by their attacker. It's not my area!"

Lestrade watched with irritation as Sherlock started to pick up items too quickly for Greg's liking; they must have been things the younger man had used to get high before. Now would be a hell of a time to lock Sherlock up for drug possession, but even that would be difficult to prove unless he actually found drugs in his possession, not like Greg Lestrade would actually lock him up.

"What do you mean it's not your area? I know for a fact that this is your area, Sherlock! You've dealt with this!" Greg urged him, taking a step towards him.

Sherlock shook his head and clenched his jaw. "I haven't… _dealt _with this, Lestrade. I've suffered through it! I haven't completely gotten over what he did to me. How am I supposed to help this child when I can't even help myself?"

Greg sighed heavily and rubbed his temples before locking eyes with Sherlock again. "All we're asking is if you can get her to say something, _anything_. She's absolutely catatonic. She hasn't said a word since we brought her in…"

"Well here's a brilliant idea! Why not take her to the hospital! She needs to be checked out! Maybe they can get her to talk…"

"We did take her to the hospital, Sherlock! Right after we found her! She was discharged with no apparent evidence of his semen or anything else inside her. Everyone's tried to get her to say something, anything, but she's been silent for 48 hours. She won't tell us anything."

Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides and took a deep breath to try and calm himself, unfamiliar with these sudden, angry feelings. He wasn't angry at the girl or even at Lestrade; his anger seemed to be aimed towards the man who had abused her. "If she won't talk to you, then I'm going to be the last person she decides to talk to!"

"What else would you have me do, Sherlock? We need answers from her! We need to know exactly what happened to her while he had her locked up in that hell house!"

Sherlock suddenly slammed his fist on the dresser before he turned on Greg. "What else would I have you do? What about your damn job? You're Scotland Yard! Question the abuser! Make him tell you what happened instead of relying on a child whose imagination can run wild! You've made a mistake coming here! I'm not the right person to question this child!"

Suddenly, the door to the bedroom opened and John peaked his head inside but stood straight and upright, walking almost threateningly towards Lestrade. "Is… everything all right here, Greg?"

"Yeah… yeah, it's fine," he glanced over at the doctor before looking back at Sherlock with desperate, pleading eyes. "We're at the end of our rope here, Sherlock. You know we wouldn't ask you unless we couldn't do this ourselves. Please…"

"Greg, I think it's time you should go now, yeah? Let me walk you out…"

Sherlock took another deep breath before he exhaled and then closed his eyes. This was the last thing he wanted to do and he didn't even know why he was considering doing this at all. He looked over at John and put his hand up. "John, it's fine. Leave it alone…"

The doctor turned and looked at Sherlock with surprised eyes. "Really? Sherlock, you don't have to do this. No one's going to think less of you if you turn this down. You went through this yourself – "

Sherlock nodded slowly and opened his eyes. "Which is why I need to do this. I don't want to talk to her but I feel like I should. She's not talking to anyone else because they can't relate to her and they're just assuming they know how she's feeling and what she's going through. In turn, she can't relate to them because she knows this fact and it doesn't mean anything to her. I know how she's feeling; I know what she's going through. There's… a chance I might be able to help her."

John moved over towards Sherlock and searched his face. "There's also a chance you might not be able to."

"I realize this, John, but it's dangerous for a person to remain in their head all the time. Even if I can somehow get her to say two words to me in several hours, I'd still consider it a success. I… I believe this might help me too, John…"

Sherlock searched John's eyes for permission and once he saw the older man nod in understanding and acknowledgement, he turned back to Lestrade. "All right."

Greg's eyes widened. "All right? You'll do it, then? You'll help us get her to talk?"

"I'll do what I can, Lestrade. I can't promise anything though…"

"Great! That's great. As always, we appreciate the help, Sherlock. Do you want to ride back to Scotland Yard with me or take a cab?"

Sherlock glanced back over at John whose face silently told him that he wanted to talk first before the young detective ran off to complete his mission. "I believe I'll take a cab there. I need to do something first."

"Right… then I suppose I'll see you there in a bit. Good morning, John," Greg nodded his goodbyes to the doctor before he walked out of the flat.

After John listened to the hum of his police car drive away, he moved closer towards Sherlock.

"Are you sure this is what you really want to do?"

"Yes, John. I've made my decision, and for better or worse, I believe I made the right one. Do you have any objections with my choice? You appear a bit unnerved about the situation," Sherlock observed calmly, his anger and hesitation having melted away with Greg Lestrade's exit.

John chewed apprehensively on his bottom lip. "I'm not going to stop you if this is what you want to do. It's your choice. I just didn't expect you to be willing to go there and talk to, err… a child. I don't think I've ever seen you talk to a child who didn't automatically start screaming or crying in fear of you."

"That was one time and in case you've forgotten, that was because of Moriarty, so I'm quite sure that will not happen again. Anyway, I understand why my acceptance to help Lestrade with this case might be an enigma to you but I assure you that I can make this girl talk. Call it, an experiment, if you will. I'm going to see if my past experiences can somehow make her open up to me," Sherlock smiled without humor.

"An experiment? That's how you see this, then?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then cleared his throat. "How else should I see this as? The goal is to get an emotional response from a subject by performing a series of emotion-inducing tests in the way of my own past experience."

John's mouth opened in shock and frustration. "When Lestrade was here though, you seemed like you were doing this for the right reasons, not just as an experiment. I can't believe you're seeing this little girl's pain and suffering as a bloody science experiment! Who exactly are you, Sherlock? Who is this person that's standing in front of me because I honestly can't recognize him!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed before he started to get changed into formal attire. "Oh, John. There really is no need to be so dramatic. You're just as bad as my brother. However, if that were the case, then the things we do would be quite illegal."

John nearly exploded when he saw Sherlock smirk. "Why is everything a joke to you, Sherlock? This is serious! A child was abused and you're treating it like a joke! You really are a machine…"

"Not a machine, John, a sociopath."

John Watson shook his head in denial. "No! No, Sherlock. You're not playing that card with me. You can't label yourself as a sociopath all you want but you and I both know that you can feel plenty of things. I just want you to admit that you're doing this because you want to help someone in a similar situation as yourself, that you're helping her because you would hate for her to be caught up in the same situation as yourself."

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "And what situation would that be exactly?"

"An ex-junkie who would rather deny he feels more than any other human I know in order to keep up appearances of being a heartless bastard," John answered honestly, sadness in his eyes.

The younger man took this in for several moments before he finished pulling down his cuffs. "If you'll excuse me now, John, I have someplace I need to be."

He had left the bedroom and his hand was on the doorknob when he heard John's voice from the bedroom.

"I love you…" the doctor's voice trailed through the flat.

Sherlock smiled to himself. "I love you too, John." He waited a bit before he grabbed his phone and hurried out of the flat, deciding that this was something he had to do alone.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

He thought of everything he wished anyone had told him after he had been sexually abused. No one ever said it wasn't his fault. No one ever told him that it wasn't normal, or that it wasn't okay, but somehow, Sherlock had just _known _that it wasn't.

Wasn't normal and wasn't okay. It was the sinking, broken feeling inside of him that made him realize the reality of the situation. He just knew that what his father's friend had done to him had been the worst thing imaginable.

What was he to say to this young girl? The only other children he had ever properly talked to before were his nieces. That had appeared much simpler and easier than his task at hand right now.

When he arrived at Scotland Yard, he wasn't surprised when he heard the familiar, taunting voice of Sally Donavan coming from the very person herself as she walked out of the room where they were no doubtedly keeping the young girl.

"Heard you were coming, Freak. I'm having a strong sensation of déjà vu. Maybe this time a little girl won't start screaming when she sees you…"

Sherlock was used to her name-calling and so he just pursed his lips. "Ah, Sally. Never a pleasure to see you, is it? Surprised I haven't seen Anderson around yet. He's usually close by when you are. Speaking of the devil, how _are _your knees? Have they healed from the last time you scrubbed his floors?"

Sally's face fell from satisfaction to defeat. "How are your arms, Sherlock? Heard a rumor that you like to fall on needles instead of finding them in haystacks."

This felt like a harsh blow to Sherlock but he didn't let his true feelings or hurt show. He just chuckled and smiled without humor. "I would love to stay and chat but apparently Scotland Yard is too incompetent to question someone so the burden now falls onto myself. See you around, Sergeant Donavan."

He opened the door before she could get another smart remark in and then closed it behind him. Sherlock glanced off to the side where he knew stood a two way mirror, most likely with Greg Lestrade on the other side of it. He looked back at the table where a young girl who couldn't have been much older than eight years old was sitting with a glass of apple juice in front of her along with a few dozen crackers.

Sherlock put aside his usual cold and analytical disposition and replaced it with how he figured normal adults talked to children in these kinds of situations. He walked over towards her and smiled warmly.

"Hello there. Do you mind if I sit down?"

The young girl bit her lip unsure but then shook her head. As he sat down, he made sure to move his chair so it was a safe distance from hers but also where he could keep her attention. "Can I ask what your name is?"

The little girl was silent for a bit before he saw her eyes glance over at the mirror before looking back at Sherlock.

"Ah," he observed. "You're quite smart, aren't you? Don't worry about them. They don't care what we're saying in here. I'm Sherlock…"

She tucked her long locks behind her one ear before she grabbed one of the crayons that were lying on the middle of the table amongst a pile of drawn on papers with words scribbled all over it. So she was talking in a different way.

Sherlock watched as she wrote down a name and then showed the piece of construction paper to him. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Katie. How old are you, 8? 9?"

The young girl known as Katie put up eight fingers and then let them drop in her lap again. Sherlock sighed to himself and felt disgust with her abuser. She was only eight years old and already been tainted by filthy hands. The young man felt sick.

He nodded once and then was quiet for a long time. The two of them stared at each other for a long time before Sherlock decided to just get down to business now. He leaned forward and took a deep breath.

"Katie, I know what happened to you. You were hurt, right? The man who touched you… did you know him?" Sherlock asked gently.

He then observed as the young girl's body tensed and she started to anxiously pick at the skin around her fingertips. After a long moment, she finally nodded in answer.

Sherlock felt his stomach tighten uncomfortably. "Was… was he a relative of yours or your parents? Was he an uncle perhaps?"

Katie shook her head and then took a sip of her apple juice before looking back at Sherlock with big eyes.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Was he a friend of your father's or mother's? You can just nod if he's either."

She obeyed Sherlock and nodded slowly. Sherlock nodded in understanding and hated how familiar this felt. This little girl and her situation hit way too close to home for Sherlock's taste. "Can I tell you a secret, Katie? A secret that I've only told a few close people?"

She looked intrigued now and then nodded.

The young man took a deep breath and then exhaled. "When I was your age, or perhaps a couple years younger, my own father's best friend hurt me too. He… he touched me very inappropriately. I only know bits and pieces of your story, Katie, but I'm sure it's very much like my own. My father's friend would babysit me and… told me that what he was doing was normal, that I needed to be a good boy and stay put. Did your father or mother's friend say something similar?"

Katie bit her lip harder now as she nodded and Sherlock felt something in his chest ache when he noticed her eyes filling up with tears. Sherlock swallowed hard, not really sure how to calm her down so instead, he continued to talk.

"What they did, what your abuser and my father's friend did, both of them, it wasn't right. It isn't normal… it's… horrible, to put it lightly. The important thing though is for you to know that it wasn't your fault, Katie. What that monster did to you, it wasn't your fault and you didn't deserve it. No one deserves to be abused," Sherlock attempted to persuade her.

Tears escaped her eyes now and suddenly her body was trembling with sobs. He looked at her almost in alarm but then forced himself to remain calm. He didn't know what to do. Should he hug her? Or would that be too much affection too soon? Would it be inappropriate? He honestly wasn't sure but Lestrade wasn't coming out to them. Obviously the DI wanted to see what Sherlock was going to do next.

"Hey… hey, Katie… look at me. Can you look at me, Katie?" When she met his face with her own reddened one, Sherlock continued. "It's okay to cry. It's more than okay. Sometimes we need to get the pain out and crying is a positive way to do that. You've been through something most people can't even fathom and you made it out alive. You're so strong, Katie. We both are. I know it must be difficult for you right now but the pain will lessen in time and life will go on. You might or might not remember what happened to you, but either way, I promise you will find caring people who love you no matter what and they'll help you through it."

Even though her body was racking with sobs, she nodded emphatically in response and lazily wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. Sherlock looked around but didn't see any tissues. He mentally scolded Lestrade before he pulled out a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"It's clean, I promise." After she reached over and grabbed it from him, he gave her a small smile. "Nicked it from a shop. I run into a lot of crying girls in my line of work, figured it might be useful to keep them on me…"

Katie suddenly let out a weak chuckle and dabbed at her face with the handkerchief before blowing her nose. Sherlock felt a tinge of hope rise up from within him now at her chuckle. It didn't matter how weak it was; the important thing was that it was still there inside of her. The monster hadn't stolen every ounce of her happiness.

Several more minutes went by and the little girl's crying soon ceased into occasional hiccups. Sherlock shifted in his seat before looking up at her again. "It's going to be okay, Katie. You're a brave young girl and you're going to get through this."

She gave him a small smile back before opening her mouth. "Y-You're brave too…"

If Sherlock hadn't seen her mouth actually open and hear a voice echo off the walls, he wouldn't have believed she had said anything. He smiled brighter at her now and felt hope light up for his own self as well. "Thank you, Katie. That's very kind of you to say, but I assure you, I have nowhere near the bravery as you have."

Katie blushed furiously but then snatched one of the crackers on the table before she slipped it in her mouth to eat it to avoid having to say anything else. He couldn't think of anything else that could be said anyway at this point. It felt like the sun had come out after days of English rain and dark clouds drowned the country.

Sherlock stood up and looked down at her again. "Goodbye, Katie. It was lovely talking to you."

He gave her a quick wink before he started towards the main door and had opened it when he heard her voice from behind him again.

"You too."

Sherlock walked out and saw the shocked and awed faces of both Anderson and Sally. He walked past them in a proud stride and then heard Lestrade's voice trailing after him.

"Oi! Sherlock, how'd you do that? We've been talking to her for nearly two days and she didn't say one word to us!"

Sherlock smirked to himself in satisfaction before he turned around to face all three of them, but continued walking backwards towards the exit. "Haven't you heard? I'm the child whisperer!"

He turned back around and then pushed open the door before he left Scotland Yard, feeling new, fresh, and free.


End file.
